


Judgement Day

by Agent_Talis



Category: Inspector George Gently, The Professionals
Genre: Big bang 2017, Crossover, M/M, Serial Killer, casefic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2019-01-10 02:47:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12289599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Agent_Talis/pseuds/Agent_Talis
Summary: There’s a serial killer loose in Durham and he’s targeting policemen. The local law enforcement is in disarray, each cop fearing that he’s next.Cue Bodie and Doyle. Sent down from London to assist in the capture of the maniac, they find themselves forming an uneasy alliance with one DI John Bacchus and DS Rachel Coles. As the body count rises, Bacchus brings back his retired mentor for one last case, though, hopefully not the last case they’ll ever take.But, as they get closer to the truth, the killer gets closer to them...





	Judgement Day

**1977**

The moon was perfectly reflected in the still water.

Normally, the surface would be dancing under the pressure of the fountain, but it had been turned off for the night. The streetlights gleamed like miniature suns underneath the water, but the stars were too far away to be mirrored.

A cloud of red blocked out the white sphere. It spread slowly through the pool like ivy.

The moon’s reflection was nearly as bright in the sheen of the dead man’s eyes.

***

George Cowley placed the phone back in the cradle and sat back in his chair, staring at his door and chewing the leg of his glasses.

He’d never heard the Detective Superintendent of Durham Constabulary sound so flat. Cowley had only spoken to him once or twice at various formal events, but that man had always been bubbling with excitement – even if the subject was various historical ‘orrible murders. A strange man, but an effective superintendent nonetheless.

And now he wanted CI5’s help.

Cowley put his glasses back on and shoved them up his nose. Then he stood, straightened his tie and strode over to his office door. He opened it and smiled at his secretary Betty. “Contact 4.5 and 3.7, will you? I want to see them in here.” He paused and added, “Now, if not sooner.”

Then he returned to his desk and picked up the folded newspaper. There, on the front page, was the whole grisly story.

After a few lines, he was wishing that he’d replaced the bottle of whisky in his desk drawer.

 

“Now if not sooner,” Bodie mimicked as he ran his electric shaver over his chin, “What does he expect? We’ll sprout wings?”

“Well, now is relative, innit?” Doyle grinned across at his partner before turning his attention back to the road. He, unlike Bodie, had gotten up with the alarm that morning – and looked disgustingly awake. At Bodie’s raised eyebrow, he elaborated, “The Cow said he wanted us in ‘now’ and since now means, you know, now, we can’t technically be late…”

“Careful. Too much thinking at this time in the morning? Might hurt your brain,” Bodie said sourly. Doyle’s quick grin was blinding before his gaze flashed back ahead.

Bodie cranked his seat back and settled against it, watching Doyle drive through half-closed eyes. Despite his annoyance at Doyle’s energy, Bodie found himself enjoying the view; white shirt, leather jacket and blue jeans were a very flattering combination.

And Doyle’s energy last night had left Bodie with a pleasant enough glow to override his jealousy.

“You need a haircut,” he said as Doyle pulled into the parking space in front of the anonymous Whitehall building.  

Doyle didn’t bother to answer. He yanked the handbrake up and rubbed his eyes. “What do you reckon? Why’s Cowley calling us in?”

Bodie shrugged and threw open the car door. “Let’s go find out, shall we?” he said and threw Doyle’s sunglasses at him.

Doyle caught the glasses expertly and flipped them open. “After you, sunshine.”

 

The newspaper was slapped down on the desk, the headline screaming DURHAM’S HANGING JUDGE CLAIMS FOURTH VICTIM.

Frowning, Doyle pulled it across and began to read aloud, “Last night, the body of a police officer was discovered in the Alice Fountain. The man, whose name has not been released to the press, was found to have been tortured before his death. It is believed that…” he trailed off.

“It is believed that this is the work of the notorious serial killer, the Hanging Judge,” Cowley quoted. He steepled his fingers and nodded at the paper, “That’s four police officers who have killed in the same manner in the last two months. I expect that you’ve been following the story?”

Doyle nodded. Bodie waved his hand dismissively and added, “What little there is.”

Cowley stood and pulled a notepad out from his desk. Sliding it across the desk, he said, “I was contacted this morning by Superintendent Sam Priest. The body was identified as Detective Sergeant Jack Morrison; he’d been missing since Friday.”

Doyle froze.

It was left to Bodie to ask, “And?”

Cowley sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Understandably, Priest’s worried. That’s four officers he’s lost now.”

Doyle heaved himself out his seat, brow creased. He leant against the cabinet, biting his thumb. Bodie frowned at him but said nothing. Cowley’s gaze flickered between them and he stabbed a finger at the newspaper. “Priest has requested assistance from CI5.”

It took a moment for the implications to seep through, but when they did, it was electric. Bodie jumped out of his chair and said, “Are you sending us to _Durham,_ sir?”

The glare Cowley fixed his agent with could have frozen a bonfire. “Yes, Bodie,” he said, “Durham.”

“To find this serial killer?”

“Well it’s hardly to go visit the cathedral, is it, Bodie?” Doyle snapped. Bodie held up his hands in a pose of submission. Doyle glared at him and then turned away.

Cowley raised an eyebrow but merely said, “You’ll be working with an Inspector John Bacchus. He’s in charge of the case along with a Detective Sergeant Coles. So pack your bags, gentlemen.” He fixed them with a steely look, “I want you down there as soon as possible.”

Doyle nodded and then left without a word. Bodie rushed after him. “Yes, sir, running all the way, sir,” he managed over his shoulder, as the door shut behind them.

***

Miraculously, there was a free spot in front of Doyle’s flat. Bodie hopped lightly out of his car and then locked it. As he glanced up at the towering grey-bricked building, he felt a frisson of concern scratch his gut.

Doyle seemed to have taken the news of Morrison’s death hard or, then again knowing Doyle; maybe it was just his natural guilt complex. Bodie shook his head and sighed. He’d just have to wheedle the information out of his partner. Jabbing the callbox button with his finger, Bodie muttered, “So who’s Morrison, then, sunshine?”

There was a burst of static, then, “Yeah?”

Bodie grinned. “Your chauffeur, milord.”

“Berk,” Doyle sounded affectionate, if a little distracted. “Suppose you better come up, haven’t you?”

The locking mechanism on the door clicked and Bodie shoved it open. Still smirking, he leant back to stare up the stairs, wondering whether surprising Doyle was worth sprinting up five flights –

Nah. Not even his angelfish was worth that. Bodie strode towards the stairs, hands in pockets and whistling a jaunty little tune. As he began his ascent into the sour milk-smelling building (God, every agent lamented being placed in this residence), Bodie thought that he maybe shouldn’t be so cheerful considering that they were about to drive over two hundred miles to investigate a cop-killer.

Especially if that cop-killer had murdered someone Ray knew.

Bodie slowed his steps slightly, rehearsing what he was going to say. Should he ask about Morrison? It wasn’t like Doyle owed him any information – Bodie was tight-lipped about his own experiences in Africa and the people there, so it didn’t mean that Doyle would have to be any more open about his own past. Still, Bodie thought as he rapped on Doyle’s door, it would be good to know if this was going to affect the case –

The door swung open to reveal Doyle with damp hair and a green t-shirt bunched in his hand. “I think you need to take a refresher course with Macklin,” he said in way of a greeting.

Bodie stepped inside. “Why?” he asked with exaggerated innocence.

“It took you that long to get up five lousy flights?” Doyle threw Bodie a grin over his shoulder.

Bodie paused momentarily. It sounded like their usual repartee but there was a distinct undertone to it. He followed Doyle into his bedroom where he was in the act of what was presumably packing. Bodie leant over and refolded the thrown t-shirt.

“What are you doing?” Doyle asked as he pulled out his tartan scarf. Bodie was impressed – Doyle had his back to him and no mirror.

“Your packing skills are horrible.”

“Really? Well, I apologise, the police never taught us how to pack. I ‘spect that’s a military thing.”

There, a wobble in his voice. Bodie took a breath, tried to push away the image of them both in this room, and took the plunge. “So… who was Jack Morrison?”

Doyle froze, still crouched by the chest of drawers. Very slowly, he straightened up. “He was a… a friend.” Doyle began to toy with the garishly painted soldier.

Bodie sat down on the bed. “You don’t sound very sure.”

His partner turned to face him and only now did Bodie see that Doyle’s eyes were slightly reddened – he’d been crying or close to it. “I haven’t spoken to him in ten years. Actually, we didn’t part on very good terms.”

“Ah.”

“Don’t you fucking ‘ah’ me, Bodie.” Doyle swiped a hand across his eyes. The scarf was clenched in his other fist as he strode towards Bodie. “Listen, it was just a bit of a shock, alright? I mean, you don’t expect it. Jack and I had an argument before he was transferred and then the next thing I hear he’s… dead.”

Doyle sank down onto the bed and rubbed a hand through his hair. Sensing that any more would be unappreciated at this point, Bodie reached over and squeezed Doyle’s shoulder. “You’re upset because you never got the chance to apologise.”

“I guess.” Doyle shrugged and added, “I did have ten years to go and see him sometime. You know, talk it out but now…” he shrugged again, hopelessly. “It’s just that you don’t expect a serial killer to murder someone you knew.”

Bodie took the scarf out of Doyle’s hand and tucked it into the suitcase. “Life’s shit, so you might as well enjoy it,” he said succinctly. “It’s horrible, but it happened. And now,” he ruffled Doyle’s hair, “We’re going to go kick whatever bastard did this in the bollocks.”

They stood up, Doyle smoothing down his shirt and Bodie leaning over in a business-like way to close the suitcase. They stared at each other for a while. Doyle had his arms crossed and his face was grim. “Durham,” he said thoughtfully.

“Durham.”

“Lots of hills in Durham. And a cathedral. And… sheep…” he trailed off, “North of the Watford Gap – you should fit in very well.”

Bodie tackled him. They landed on Doyle’s bed, a tangle of limbs. Bodie showed no mercy, descending on the most vulnerable parts with ruthless efficiency.

“Bo-die! S-stop that!”

His partner sat back and pouted. His hair was sticking up on either side of his head like bird wings. “’s not my fault you’re so ticklish.”

Doyle threw a pillow at him and Bodie snickered as it sailed past his face. Doyle extended a long finger. “We’ve forgotten something important.”

Bodie smacked his forehead. “Lube.”

“No!” Doyle reached into his pocket and brought out a coin. Bodie stared at it. “Heads or tails?”

“What?”

Doyle’s grin had a sparkle in it. “Who’s driving to Durham, you berk!”

“It’s my car,” Bodie pointed out. “So obviously you’re driving the first leg.”

***

The police station wasn’t much to look at after the gorgeous hills. Doyle leant against the Capri and stretched his legs with a small groan. They’d driven pretty much straight from London, only stopping twice: once to switch over and once for a pee break.

Now he was hungry, sore and tired. Not the best impression to give to their new temporary boss he thought wryly. Stifling a yawn, Doyle looked over at Bodie as he fiddled with his tie in the car. “We don’t have all day, you know,” he said.

Bodie shot him a withering glare as he climbed out. “I just want to be presentable for Inspector Backons,” he said.

“Bacchus,” Doyle corrected him as they began to stride towards the squat little building. “Pretty sure that was the Greek god of wine,” he said.

It was Bodie’s turn to improve the statement. “Bacchus was Roman,” he said.

“Bet you 1p?”

“You’re really not sure, are you?”

Doyle pulled a face but didn’t answer.

They fell into step as they reached the door; a young policeman stared at them with obvious mistrust as he stubbed out his cigarette. Bodie and Doyle ignored him and clattered up the steps and inside the building. At the desk, a large police officer rose to meet them. “May I help you, sirs?” he asked. He looked to be about their age, round-faced and sporting a ridiculous moustache.

“Yes,” Doyle very carefully managed not to laugh. “I’m Doyle and this is Bodie.” He flicked open his ID. “We’ve been sent to help an Inspector Bacchus with a case.”

The policeman peered closely at Doyle’s ID and then at Bodie’s. He frowned momentarily and then said, “If you’ll come along with me, sirs.” He walked out from behind the desk and began to lead them through the whitewashed room filled with curious coppers. “I’m Taylor,” he said, “Sergeant Taylor. You’re here to work on the, uh,” he hesitated and hung his head.

“You alright?” Doyle asked as he sidestepped a young WPC.

“Yeah,” Taylor said quickly, “Yeah.” He gestured to a room with frosted glass windows. There were two brass nameplates screwed wonkily onto the door. Shadows moved inside the room, one striding about and animatedly waving their arms.

The CI5 agents shared a significant look. Taylor glanced back at them, suddenly nervous, and then opened the door.

“And now I have London and some stuck-up CI5 agents muscling in on my case –“ The man was in full flow, his wavy hair flopping wildly as he gestured.

The woman sitting primly at the desk behind him looked up with an expression of acute shock. She coughed urgently and then said, “Inspector?”

“What?” He spun around to see Bodie, Doyle and Taylor standing in the doorway. “Oh, Jesus.” It was an expression of annoyance, not embarrassment.

“Sir, the CI5 agents,” Taylor said hesitantly. The man and woman stared at him and he added, “Mr Doyle and Mr Bodie, sir.”

The woman recovered first. Smiling, she stood up and walked over to the agents. She was older than them by four or so years, auburn-haired and quite pretty. Extending a hand, she said, “I’m Detective Sergeant Rachel Coles. This is Detective Inspector John Bacchus.” She nodded at Taylor who turned and left. “Thanks, man.” 

“I’m Doyle,” Doyle said, shaking her hand. Her eyes were an attractive shade of greenish hazel he noticed. “Ray Doyle. That’s Bodie.”

“No need for the Mr,” Bodie drawled. Doyle shot him a quick glance, but neither Bacchus nor Coles seemed to have noticed Bodie’s tone.

“Right. You can call me Rachel.” Rachel said. She gestured towards a blackboard with names chalked up in a scrappy hand. “I expect you’d quite like to get right intae it?”

Doyle smiled at her, “Yes please.”

Bacchus was staring at them with a dark look on his face. He took Rachel’s vacated spot, arms folded across his chest. Bodie flashed him a condescending smile, enjoying the way Bacchus’ scowl grew more pronounced.

“What do you know of the case?” Rachel was asking. She tapped the board where it was divided in two, “These are the…” her voice faltered for a moment, “the victims. WPC Harriet Simmons, she was found on the moors two months ago. Police Constable Gregory Howard was next, he was taken outside the Cathedral three weeks later, we think, and then we found him in an alleyway. Then DC Luke Constance, last month. He was found in front of the University.”

“Then, yesterday, we found Jack,” Bacchus cut in flatly. “We have a serial killer.”

Rachel shook her head. Bodie saw her fingers curl into fists. “Aye. Poor Jack.” She jabbed the other side of the board. There were three names. “These are our suspects. We think it was one of them.”

Doyle nodded and peered at the writing. Freddie Jackson. Pauline Jackson. Kenneth Drover. Curling a strand of hair around his finger, he asked, “Why do you think these were all the same killer?”

“Maybe because he’s only killin’ police officers,” Bacchus retorted. “Maybe the name the Hanging Judge wasn’t a clue.” 

“I was only asking,” Doyle protested. Bacchus slid off the desk and stormed over, blue eyes blazing. He was taller than Doyle by several inches but lanky with it. There were streaks of grey at his temples and his face was lined: this was a man prematurely aged by worry and – possibly – fury as well. Out of the corner of his eye, Doyle saw Bodie take a step towards them.

Bacchus leant into Doyle’s face. He was all angles, Doyle noted absently, and scared and angry and anxious all at the same time. It isn’t personal, he tried to remind himself, and we are swanning down from London to investigate the murders of _his_ officers.

“Is that the calibre of CI5 agents, is it?” Bacchus growled. “You know more than us Northerners then?”

“Uh, actually, I’m from Liverpool,” Bodie offered.

“And I’m an ex-cop,” Doyle said calmly. It didn’t seem to appease Bacchus much. “We’re on your side, Inspector. We were sent to help solve the case, not take it over.”

That didn’t seem to go over well either. Doyle was just about to try a different tack when the office door opened. Doyle looked round, glad of the distraction. It was Sergeant Taylor.

“The post-mortem is done, sir,” he said, “If you’d like to see Jack’s… the body.”

***

He didn’t look any different, Doyle realised through the mists of shock. Jack Morrison had always been sturdy; he’d only bulked-up in the last ten years. The corpse on the table was half-covered in a sheet. Jack’s torso and up was visible and Doyle found himself re-establishing the man’s features in his mind – how could he have forgotten the sweep of Jack’s dark hair or the scar on his chin?

Bodie tapped his arm gently, bringing him back to the real world just in time for Doyle to see the coroner, a red-haired woman named Meadows, hand Bacchus a report. “The same as the last two, I’m afraid, sir,” she said softly, “He was hanged. The hangman’s fracture – his spine snapping – is what finally killed him.”

“Finally?” Bodie queried, stooping to peer at the corpse.  A frown flitted across his face.

“He was drugged – chloroform like the last two – then restrained,” Meadows flicked the sheet across to expose Jack’s forearm. “Look here, you can see the bruising where he fought whatever was holding him down. Three of his fingers were broken on this side.” Lifting the left hand, Meadows pointed at the knuckles, “But you can see the bruising here and tooth marks. Morrison fought back.”

“Did he break his fingers that way? Punching his attacker?” Doyle asked, mouth dry.

Meadows shook her head. Doyle’s shoulders slumped.

“He was tortured?” Bacchus asked. He was carefully not looking at the body.

Meadows nodded and picked up another three files. Wordlessly, she handed them to Rachel, Bodie and Doyle. Bodie took it and then pointed at the corpse’s head.

“What are those marks on his temples?” he asked.

Meadows leant down to peer at the indicated places and admitted, “I don’t know yet, I’m afraid. They look to be burns of some kind, but what caused them I’m not sure.”

“A lighter?” Rachel suggested.

Meadows shrugged and said, “Perhaps.”

Doyle scanned the text in his hand, a tiny frown dinting between his eyebrows. “So,” he began, “The killer’s method is to grab their victim off the street, chloroform them and then torture them?”

“And finally he hangs them,” Bodie finished.

Rachel toyed with her file. “Yes,” she glanced at them, looking pale. “Actually, the first murder – Harriet – was just strangled. But we don’t know if that was because she was the first or because she was a woman or…” she trailed off. “Sir, are you alright?”

Bacchus was crushing one of the typed reports in his fist, gaze fixed somewhere in the middle distance. “I hope you lot are useful,” he spat, still not looking towards Bodie and Doyle, “Because we have work to do.” He threw the report towards Bodie who caught it expertly in his other hand and then stomped out of the morgue.

Rachel followed him to the door, stopped, and then asked, “Are you coming?”

“Yeah,” Bodie said but Doyle shook his head.

“I’ll stay here… just for a bit,” he murmured. His gaze didn’t leave the body. “I can make my own way back up, thanks.”

“Oh, OK.” Rachel beckoned Bodie out into the hall. As they walked back up to Bacchus’ office she asked, “Did Ray know Jack?”

“Old friends apparently,” Bodie said, carefully not mentioning the fight.

Rachel was silent as Bodie explained.

***

Bacchus dragged two chalkboards to the centre of the room. The first one was labelled VICTIMS and on it was written the details of the four police officers as well as the method of execution and abduction. The second he divided into two and wrote a name at the top of both sections; Freddie Jackson and Kenneth Drover. Bodie lounged in one of the uncomfortable plastic chairs, his lips pressed together. Doyle stood behind him, leaning against one of the cabinets, biting his thumb. 

“These are our two main suspects,” Bacchus said. He pointed at the first name, “Freddie Jackson is the barman in the Blue Seagull Hotel. He’s a keen hillwalker and a fairly…” he rounded his shoulders, miming someone walking, “… a fairly hefty bloke. He has a car and he doesn’t have an alibi for the night of Gregory Howard’s death or Harriet Simmons. His wife, Pauline, swears that he was with her all night for Luke Constance’s murder. However, she is clearly, madly in love with Freddie and I’m not sure we can take her word as fact…” He was writing the information down as he spoke, words muffled by his concentration.

“We’ve questioned him before,” Rachel said, “So it might be… uh… difficult when we question him again.”

“Meaning?” Doyle asked.

“We were thinking that you and Mr Bodie could stay in The Blue Seagull. The Jacksons wouldn’t know that you two were investigating and you could go undercover, if you will.”

Bodie shot Doyle a glance. Doyle shrugged, green gaze revealing nothing. Unusual, that, Bodie thought. Normally Doyle’s every emotion was broadcast for the whole world to see but today… “Sure,” Bodie said, “It’s not like we’ve never gone undercover before.” Rachel gave him a relieved smile and settled back in her chair. Bacchus coughed.

“Kenneth Drover, he’s a farmhand who lives with his brother, Jerome. He’s… not a fan of the police. He has an arrest record as long as your arm.” Bacchus underlined the name so hard that the chalk broke in two. Dropping the useless implement, he snarled, “His alibis are shaky to say the least.”

“So why haven’t you arrested him?” Bodie asked.

Rachel shot him a glance, her expression unreadable. “Because here in the North-East we need something called proof. We can’t conclusively prove that he was there, but he can’t prove he wasn’t either.”

Doyle nodded slowly. “So what do you want us to do? Who focuses on who?”

Bodie couldn’t help himself and muttered angelically, “Whom.”

Ignoring the confused and slightly irritated glances from Bacchus and Rachel, Doyle fixed Bodie with a glare. Bodie grinned back at him, all confidence.

“You’ll have to excuse his manners,” Doyle said, “He doesn’t have any.”

“Fine,” Bacchus snarled, “Just as long as you keep a low profile. Any questions?”

Immediately Bodie’s hand went up to a chorus of groans.

***

“Of all the arrogant, conceited bastards –“ Bacchus stamped the remains of his cigarette into the ground, grinding it into the stone. When was the last time he’d felt this irritated by someone? Not for a while, he was sure. Bodie’s all-knowing, mocking grin had almost incited him into trying to wipe it off the bastard’s handsome face. Only the fact that Bodie was built like a brick shithouse and a CI5 agent had stopped him; that and the other fact being that Bodie’s partner, Doyle, looked ready to smash his face in if he had. Bacchus knew when to back down from a fight.

Bacchus leant against the stone wall of the police station, pulling his jacket tight across his shoulders to try and ward off the biting wind. This whole case was a mess… how the hell were they still getting the run-around? There was a nutter somewhere in _his_ city killing _his_ officers.

He couldn’t help but take it as a personal affront.

Movement behind him made him start, but it was just Rachel. “Are you alright, sir?”

“Why do we hafta work with those bastards?” Bacchus snapped. “I swear if Bodie steps out of line one more time…”

Rachel shrugged, the gesture almost hidden in her voluminous coat. “We’re not gettin’ very far with the case,” she said. “Wouldn’t you rather get it solved? Or would you prefer the killer get away?”

Shaking his head, Bacchus said, “I can’t see why they’re here anyway. Are they getting a promotion out of this or summin’?”

“Ray knew Jack.”

Bacchus started and then stared at Rachel, feeling cold, feeling confused. Her gaze fixed him in place and she continued, “They were friends back in London. Ray knew him when he was just a kid starting out. He’s come to find his killer, _sir_. So I think you should treat them with more respect. They didn’t have to come. CI5 didn’t have to help us and I think we should be bloody grateful that they are!”

Bacchus took a step back, knocking into the sharp edge of the building. Rachel glared at him, gulping air. Their breath misted and entangled in the air, crystallising the moment.

Rachel broke the silence first. “Good night, sir.”

He nodded, rubbing the small of his back, but Rachel had already turned away.

John Bacchus drove home in a thoughtful mood.

***

Pauline Jackson was pretty and Bodie found it easy to draw her into a conversation. The woman was twenty-five, he found out, and had married the much older Freddie two years prior. She was still in the flushes of the honeymoon period, Bodie saw, constantly playing with the bright blue ribbon in her hair and touching up her makeup when she talked about him.

“Freddie’s such a romantic,” she gushed as she topped up Bodie’s glass with beer. “He sings to me such lovely songs and does the most wonderful dinners.” 

“Sounds like a great guy,” Bodie said. Affecting a slightly drunken sway, he leant towards her, noting the way her gaze followed him, and said, “Only, I heard something about Freddie not being a fan of the police.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Where did you hear that?”

Realising that he’d made a mistake, Bodie gulped down another mouthful of beer and then waved a hand dismissively, “Nah, it’s no problem.” He winked at her, “I just thought we’d found something in common, that’s all.”

Pauline relaxed. Beckoning him closer, she whispered, “Poor Freddie. He had a bad experience with one of the poor victims.”

This sounded promising. “Yeah?”

At that moment the front door was slammed open, letting in the stiff night breeze. Bodie glanced over his shoulder, half-expecting to see his partner. Instead, a blond-haired man, whose build could only be described as square, strode into the hotel bar.  His gaze immediately fell on Bodie and a twisted expression flitted across his heavily weathered features.

Bodie sat back and, thinking quickly, raised his glass. “Hello!” he called.

“Hello, friend.” The man didn’t speak, he rumbled. He towered over Bodie, one hand resting on the bar, one hand closed loosely at his side.

“Freddie Jackson?” Bodie pretended to hazard, “I was just talking to your lovely wife…”

“Were you bothering her?” Freddie asked menacingly. His green-eyed gaze was steely and the curl of his lip shifted his bushy moustache.

At once Pauline was all over him. “Oh don’t be jealous, Freddie. Mr Bodie here is engaged to be married.” Planting a kiss on her husband’s lips, she said, “He was just interested in the barman because of the quality of your drinks.”

Bodie proffered his mug and added, “Lovely pint, mate.”

Freddie didn’t look completely mollified, but he walked around behind the bar and slid his hand possessively around Pauline’s waist. He offered Bodie another glare and asked, “What brings you to Durham, then?”

“I’m here with my cousin,” Bodie lied smoothly, “Ray Doyle. We’ve come to do some sightseeing. You know, have a break from work.”

Freddie nodded slowly. “What do you do?”

His reply was equally swift, “Civil servant.”

“You push pens?” Pauline said. She pouted, showing her teeth, and said, “And I thought you were handsome. A bit of a shame. I thought you might be an actor or something.”

Bodie raised his mug again and winked at her. “Thanks, love,” he said, “But the last time I trod the boards was the Christmas Nativity when I was seven.”

***

Doyle rubbed his arms vigorously to try and get the blood flowing again. He’d been standing on the street corner for twenty minutes, trying to work up the courage to go to his destination.

He didn’t know why, but seeing the fountain where Jack’s body had been found was had seemed so important that it had compelled him to leave the hotel and venture out into the breezy night. He hadn’t told Bodie where he was going, but the light punch that his partner had landed on his shoulder before he left spoke volumes.

A small grin touched his lips. Bodie was no fool.

Rounding his shoulders and taking a deep breath, Doyle shoved his hands in his pockets and walked around the corner. The plastic police cordon gleamed under the street lamps and flashed as the wind shook it. The first time had made Doyle reach for his gun in his jacket before he realised what it was.

Doyle shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Ray, you’re jumpy,” he muttered as he reached the cordon. The fountain wasn’t much to write home about; it was maybe a metre and a half in height and very simple, a two-bowl affair engraved with what looked like roses.  Just last night Jack’s corpse had been lying at the bottom of the stagnant water…

He closed his eyes against the image, wishing there was something for him to hang onto as the sensation passed. God, maybe he shouldn’t have accepted this case. He was acting like a little kid.

Footsteps echoed. Doyle’s eyes snapped open and spun around. The woman standing behind him yelped and dropped the bundle of flowers she was carrying.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Doyle stepped forward to scoop up the flowers, “Sorry, you just… startled me.”

The woman nodded and gave him a weak smile. She was about thirty with faint threads of grey in her hair. As Doyle handed her the bouquet, he saw the deep bruise-like circles under her eyes. She ducked her face away from him and walked over to a small makeshift memorial that he hadn’t noticed.

“I should have brought something,” Doyle said.

The woman shook her head, “You didn’t need to. You came to pay your respects, that’s enough.”

Pushing his hands back into his pockets, Doyle gave a self-conscious shrug. “I just knew DS Morrison a… a long, long time ago.”

The sudden piercing nature of the woman’s gaze made him step back, even more unsettled. Her face softened into a smile and she lifted a hand to her mouth. “Ray!” she squealed, “You’re Jack’s protégé from London!”

“Uh, yeah –“

The woman grabbed his arm, still beaming at him. “Jack talked about you a lot,” she said, “He was proud of his pupil – oh! I haven’t introduced myself yet, have I?” Seizing Doyle’s hand, she shook it lightly. “I’m Jack’s wife, Mary.” Her voice didn’t wobble, but a something – guilt, maybe? – glittered in her eyes. “We never met before Jack and I moved to Durham.”

Gently but firmly, Doyle extracted his hand and began to twist a strand of hair around his finger. His stomach cramping, he managed to force a smile at Mary. “Well, that’s gratifying to know that Jack remembered me. I certainly remembered him.”

“Are you still a cop, Ray?” she asked.

The message was clear and Doyle nodded to acknowledge it. “Yeah. I’ve come from London.” He cleared his throat and said, “We’ll find him, Mrs Morrison. We’ll find whoever did this and…”

Mary came over and flung her arms around his neck. Doyle froze as she planted a kiss on his cheek. “That’s all I would ask of you. Do it for Jack, not me. He was a good man… and he helped shape a good man in you, I believe.”

She released him, a flush of embarrassment visible even with the dim light. Doyle opened his mouth to say something, to offer to walk her home, but Mary turned and hurried away leaving him alone.

 

The door was eased open. Bodie was instantly alert, every sense straining to identify the intruder. Then he heard Doyle curse softly as he knocked something off the shelf. Bodie relaxed. He half-expected Doyle to turn on the lights – Bodie’s sleep be damned – but instead, he heard Doyle shuffle to the bathroom and close the door quietly behind him. 

Bodie rolled over onto his side and opened his eyes to stare at the door. Part of him wanted to get up and talk to Doyle to see if he was alright, but another, larger part stopped him.

Grief is a private thing, he thought as he rolled onto his back. And where he tried to bury his emotions – hell, which was second-nature to an ex-mercenary and soldier – Doyle expressed them. Loudly. But this felt different.

_There’s some story that Doyle isn’t telling me._

He meant to stay awake until Doyle left the bathroom, but when he opened his eyes again, the sun was filtering through the cracks in the blinds and Doyle was snoring in the other bed.

***

“Now to meet the second of our suspects,” Bacchus said, pointing at the tiny hut cresting the hill. Resting his hands on the steering wheel, he twisted around in the seat to look at the two CI5 agents lounging in the back.

Doyle nodded, rubbing his lip thoughtfully. “Higher or lower on your list than Freddie Jackson?” he asked. Beside him, Bodie raised his head, eyeing the hut with the air of a hunting dog.

“Higher,” Bacchus said, “Honestly, like I said, Kenneth is a nutter.” He sighed and straightened his tie. “Are you ready?”

Indicating that he was, Doyle climbed out of the car and winced as the cold air hit him. Somewhere in the distance, a sheep _baa-d_. Sighing as his trainers sank into the wet grass, he trudged up the hill behind Bacchus and Bodie. He was a city kid through and through, the countryside was pretty to look at, but Doyle resented actually slogging uphill to meet a ‘nutter’. He’d already spent too many hours slogging uphill being chased by CI5’s resident fitness nutter.

There was a man kneeling down fixing the rickety fence surrounding the property. As the three men approached he straightened up and wiped his hands on his overalls.

Bacchus flashed his I.D card. “Where’s your brother?”

Jerome Drover gave him a cool look. “He’s out tending to the sheep, as you should know.” His gaze travelled over the new faces. He nodded towards Bodie and Doyle, “New recruits?”

“This is DC Doyle and Sergeant Bodie,” Bacchus flipped the I.D card closed. “Now where’s Kenneth Drover?”

Jerome shook his head. “He’s at work – but he’ll be back in about fifteen minutes.” He smiled, but it was forced. “Would you coppers like a cup of tea or something?”

Bodie nodded and step forwards, but Jerome barred his way. Doyle tensed, seeing how quickly Jerome moved. “Can’t we come in?” Bodie asked sweetly.

Jerome shook his head and said, “Kenny gets funny about people in the house when he’s not there.” A pause and then, “He’s mental about tidiness.”

“Really?” Doyle asked, scrutinising the man in front of him.

An ice-cold blue gaze held his. “Yes,” Jerome said.

There was an irritated cough. Both men looked around to see Bacchus staring at them, his notebook out. “Where were you two nights ago at eleven o’clock?”

Jerome sat down on the grass and crossed his legs. “Let’s see,” he said thoughtfully, “I was in the house all night reading Lord of the Rings.”

“Lord of the Rings,” Bodie scoffed, “Really?”

The icy gaze again. “Yes,” Jerome said.

“Where was Kenneth?”

“With me.”

“Reading Lord of the Rings too?” Doyle asked innocently, wanting to see a reaction – something – out of the calm, weather-beaten face.

“No. He prefers something less cerebral,” Jerome said. “And speak of the devil.”

They all turned. A man was walking up the hill, his much-patched jacket bulking out his form and his dark hair haloing his head. “You alright, Jerome?” he rumbled.

The word ‘brute’ started spinning around Doyle’s mind, closely followed by ‘easily irritated’. It was a face he’d seen in countless bar fights: copper instincts readying a flight or fight response.

“Yeah. Yeah. Kenny, the cops want to talk to you again.” Jerome gestured to Bacchus. Kenny turned towards the Inspector, frowning. His fingers curled briefly into fists, clenched and then relaxed as the owner glanced towards Jerome.

“Hello, Inspector,” he said colourlessly. “I didn’t do it.”

“Do what?” Doyle asked, eyes wide.

There was a pause as Kenny assembled his thoughts. “Whatever you’ve come to accuse me of,” he said. “That’s the only reason youse would be here.”

Bacchus quickly cut in, “Where were you two nights ago at eleven o’clock, then?”

A flicker? “At home,” Kenny answered.

“Doing what?”

“Reading.”

“And how,” Bodie asked deliberately, “did you get that lovely bruise?”

 Instinctively, Kenny touched the purpled skin around his jaw. Doyle could see his gaze flitting to Jerome as his lips moved.

“Jerome and I had a fight,” he mumbled.

 “What about?”

“Something silly.”

The air was electric. He’s lying, Doyle thought.

It was Jerome who broke the silence. Glancing at his watch, he said, “Sorry, lads, but Kenny and I have work to do.” He gripped Kenny’s elbow and began to lead him away.

“We’ll still need to question you further,” Bacchus warned them.

“Looking forward to it,” Jerome replied calmly.

***

“What do you think?” Bacchus asked, glancing in the rearview mirror.

Bodie gestured apathetically, “They’re hiding something. Ray?”

Doyle nodded without looking at his partner currently in the passenger seat. “Yeah.” His eyebrows were knitted together in thought. “Maybe,” he amended, “I didn’t see a car there. Do they have one?”

Bacchus sighed and said, “No. That’s another reason we haven’t arrested them. Besides, we have no idea – as yet – what kind of vehicle’s being used.” 

Doyle fell silent, tuning out the sounds of Bacchus and Bodie bickering. Kenny had looked to his brother during their brief questioning which indicated that Jerome was the dominant one. But it was Kenny that Bacchus had said was the suspect. Living in that small hut…

If it was Kenny then he’d have to find some way of hiding the torture – the killer wasn’t hiding the bodies, but proudly showing them off. Whoever it was, they were proud that they were killing police officers.

Some kind of anarchist? Some criminal wanting revenge? And the fact that the kidnapped coppers were hanged…

 “Freddie and Kenneth… do they have relatives that hanged themselves? Any suicides in the family?”

Bacchus’ gaze was sharp. “Not that I know of. Rachel’s checking the files. Why?”

“Because there’s something odd about the deaths. Why are they being hanged? Wouldn’t it be easier to – I dunno – knife your victims? Hanging someone is difficult.” Doyle waved his hands absently, “A bit poetic, do y’reckon?”

Bodie nodded slowly and pursed his lips, “Probably.”

Bacchus sighed as he indicated to enter Durham. “Until Rachel’s finished with those files, we don’t know. I… I agree. Whoever’s doing this really hates the police.”

Bodie’s eyebrows raised and he glanced back at Doyle. He clearly read his partner’s expression; _he’s agreeing with us?_

Doyle just shrugged and looked back out the window.

They drove in silence, each man lost in their own thoughts, until the radio squawked urgently. Bacchus scooped it up, “Yeah?”

“John, where are you?” Rachel’s voice was shrill, panic audible even through the hiss of static.

“North of Durham,” Bacchus said, “Rachel –“

“Get your arse in gear,” she snapped, “DC Burton’s just been snatched from the Number Seven beat. You’re close.”

Bacchus threw the radio to Bodie who fumbled it. Slamming his foot down on the accelerator, Bacchus snarled, “Get the location.”

In the back, Doyle grabbed for the door handle.  He missed what Rachel garbled through the radio, but he heard Bodie say, “Last seen heading north, out of town. Blue van –“

“Alright,” Bacchus yanked on the wheel, spinning the car around, “Keep your eyes peeled!”

Doyle slammed into the door as they sped round a corner, fumbling in his jacket for his weapon. He shook his head and hauled himself between the two front seats, grabbing onto the headrest so he could peer through the front window. “There!”

A blue van had just shot the lights. Bacchus stamped down on the accelerator again and muttered, “We’ll get him.”

Bodie drew his gun and began to wind down the window.

“What are you doing?” Bacchus snapped.

“Shooting his tyres!” Bodie called.

“Don’t! Burton’s in there! We – are –“ Bacchus yelped and swerved to avoid a parked car, “also – in – a – populated area! You can’t –” The van skidded around a left corner, “– just shoot – randomly!”

“Don’t you have any flashing lights?” Doyle asked, “To get the other cars out of the way?”

A quick scowl disfigured Bacchus’ features, but he nodded and pressed something. Immediately the distinctive wail of a police siren ripped through the air.

The distance between them and the van was closing. Doyle sat back and drew his gun. “If we can’t shoot out the tyres, how do we stop it?”

Bacchus didn’t answer. They screeched around a corner, the car fishtailing. A thread of worry seared into Doyle’s mind.

Bodie got there first, “You’re gonna crash.”

“No – I’m – not!”

Bacchus’ driving was getting more erratic, the gap between him and the van remaining steady – just. Heart in his chest, Doyle reached for the winding handle. Bacchus wasn’t thinking clearly. He’d just have to –

“Look out!”

Too late. The car slewed to one side. Doyle was flung against the window he’d been trying to open. Pain exploded in his forehead. Somebody yelped.

Then the car hit a stone wall with an ear-splitting crunch.

By the time Doyle had pulled himself, shakily, back onto the seat with blood dripping into his eye, the van – and its occupants – was long gone.

***

The crumpled form lying on the road was only really recognisable as a police officer because of the distinctive blue uniform. Rachel walked slowly towards it, the panic of the last few hours ebbing away to a heavy dullness that she couldn’t quite grasp. Meadows was kneeling by the body, stark in her white coat.

She looked up as Rachel approached and shook her head. A distinctive, sour smell was emanating from Burton’s body.

Rachel took a look and then went and sat down at the roadside, chin in her hands, and waited for the others to arrive.

***

Bacchus rang the doorbell and stood back, admiring the way the roses were growing in their beds. He was no gardener, but even he could tell that these flowers had had a lot of love lavished on them. They were bright red, almost glowing in the fading light.

He wondered if he could ask to cut one for DC Burton.

When no one answered, Bacchus began to walk around the house to peer in the windows. A flicker of worry was scratching at the back of his mind, but all the lights were off inside the house. There wasn’t any movement. Obviously, he wasn’t in. Hopefully, he wasn’t in.

Bacchus walked around to the door and sat down on the front step, pulling out a battered packet of cigarettes. He lit one and blew a stream of smoke out in front of him, watching it curl away into the air.

God, what a day. What a month for that matter. Bacchus laughed bitterly, exhaling a plume of grey smoke. He was tired, worn-out to his very bones, and sick to his stomach. In his mind’s eye, he kept seeing Burton’s scraped and mangled body, hands still tied and mouth still taped shut, bones pulverised by the friction of the road. The immediate verdict that he was dead before he hit the road was some comfort, but not a lot.

And when the cases got like this, before, Bacchus would have sunk himself in alcohol. That was when he was too proud to ask for help.

There was someone approaching the house. Bacchus stood up, smiling. He waved congenially at the figure and shouted, “Catch anything, sir?”

George Gently, former Chief Inspector, shook his head ruefully and held up the obviously empty basket. “I think all the fish have gone south for the winter,” he called back.

Bacchus affected an inquisitive look. “That’s birds.”

Gently shrugged and a grin broke out. He hurried his stride towards the house and Bacchus felt the little shard of ice grow in his chest.

The MS was finally catching up to his old mentor and it crushed something inside Bacchus every time he saw him. Gently’s gait was odd now, jerky and uneven, and the number of times that he’d seen Gently drop something while he pottered around the house was sobering. Not to mention that, occasionally, he would suddenly stop and rub a hand across his eyes; Bacchus knew now that it was to try and stop the double vision.

It was just another piece of evidence of the harshness of the universe.

But as Gently approached, he stubbed out his ciggie and reached out a hand to take the fishing rod. “Hello, sir.”

“John, this is a surprise.” Gently let him take the rod before rooting in his vest pocket for something, “I thought you’d be a bit busy to visit me right now.” He dragged out a set of keys and stepped around Bacchus to the door, “I’ve been following the case in the news.”

“It’s a nasty one,” Bacchus said, rubbing a hand through his hair, “I was admirin’ your roses though, sir. I didn’t take you for the gardening type.”

Gently laughed and beckoned him inside. “Take off your boots, John and make yourself at home.”

Grinning, Bacchus did so, neatly lining his shoes up on the rack before going into the living room and flopping down into one of the red sofas. It enveloped him warmly and he briefly worried that he was going to fall asleep there and then. Gently disappeared into the kitchen and then reappeared holding two glasses. Bacchus watched them carefully, tensing in case he needed to make a dive to catch them. Gently’s raised eyebrow told him that his former boss had noticed, but neither of them said anything.

They didn’t need to, anyway.

“Drink?” Gently asked.

Bacchus nodded.

“Whiskey?”

“Yeh, thanks.”

Gently opened the drinks cabinet and removed the decanter. As he walked back to the small table where he’d placed the two glasses, he cradled it in both hands.

Bacchus made a note of that. 

As Gently poured two generous fingers, he said, “And what happened to you?”

Bacchus touched the bruise on his cheek gingerly. It still hurt like hell. “Nothing.”

“John…”

He sighed. “I crashed my car in a high-speed chase, guv.”

Gently slowly placed the decanter back on the table and turned to stare at him, his expression one of horror and worry. “Shouldn’t you be in hospital?” he demanded.

Waving his hand airily, Bacchus replied, “I’m OK, sir. Just a coupla bruises.” His gaze darkened and he added, “But because I crashed, DC Burton is dead.”

Gently handed him the second glass and lowered himself into the opposite sofa. He began to tap his own glass distractedly, “In the crash?”

“No,” Bacchus downed the whiskey, wincing at the burn in his throat. “No. He choked on his own vomit, we think.” He bit his lip and continued, “He was snatched in broad daylight, guv! Straight off his fucking beat. Broad daylight! Nearly took DC Stoker with him too, but he managed to get out of the way of the van by his own account.”

He wasn’t being clear. Bacchus quickly explained what had happened – not mentioning exactly how the car had crashed – as Gently gradually and methodically finished his whiskey.

Finally Gently said, “This isn’t a social visit, is it?”

“No, guv, I need your help – we need your help. I’ve lost five people now! Five! And unless we catch him it’s gonna be a lot more.”

Gently glared into his empty glass. “I’m retired, John,” he said quietly.

“When’s that stopped you before?” Bacchus pointed a finger, “I couldn’t stop you poking your nose into the Cullen case, remember? You nearly got yourself knifed!”

“The MS’s gotten worse.”

The flatness of his voice silenced Bacchus. Admitting it was one thing but this…

 Without meaning to, he shook his head, “Sir…”

Gently held up both hands, fingers spread wide, in a placating gesture, “I’ll help, if you want that, but I just have to warn you, John, you’re probably going to have to play nursemaid and I know I don’t want it to come to that, nor do you. I might be next to useless.”

“But you might notice something we haven’t,” Bacchus said with an apologetic smile, “C’mon, sir, you’re bored, aren’t you? What do you say? One last hurrah? One last case?”

A broad grin lit up Gently’s face and he chuckled. “As I recall, this is my third ‘last case’ this year, Inspector.”

Bacchus grinned back, feeling better already, “You miss it. Don’t deny it.”

Gently nodded and shrugged again, “What can I say? Gardening isn’t as interesting as everyone says.”

“And the fish aren’t biting.”

“And the fish aren’t biting,” Gently echoed. He poured them another round. “Alright, John, I’m in. Tell me what I need to know.”

“Well, first of all, we’ve got a couple of blokes from London…”

***

Bodie glanced up at the sound of voices. Bacchus was leading someone towards the office: an old man, dressed casually in a faded navy fleece jacket and loose trousers. Bacchus was animated, his expression a mixture of relief and excitement. The other man was nodding, a faint smile on his face.

“D’you think that this is our ‘expert’?” Bodie muttered to Doyle. Doyle shrugged.

Bacchus opened the door and waved the man through. He was still smiling. “Sir, this is, uh, Mr Doyle and Mr Bodie. They’re from London – CI5.”

The man nodded slowly, mouth compressed into a thin line. He looked at Doyle first – probably surprised by the amount of hair – and then Bodie. His gaze was disconcertingly mild.

Then he cracked a smile and held out his hand, “Good morning. I’m George, George Gently.”

Doyle took it. “Ray Doyle,” he said. As Gently turned to greet him, Bodie saw his partner frown suddenly, as if attempting to recall something important.

“Bodie,” Bodie said as he clasped Gently’s hand. He had a firm grip.

Gently tilted his head to the right. “Do you have a first name?” he asked.

Bodie shrugged and released the hold, “Takes too long to say.”

“And it doesn’t pander to his ego,” Doyle finished for him. He hopped off the desk from where he’d been perching and brushed it down. “And I’m not a mister either,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

Gently grinned and said, “I’ve heard there’re no ranks in CI5… that true?”

“Yeah, everyone’s equal, except those who are more equal than others,” Bodie said, ruffling Doyle’s hair. “Our boss,” he clarified, “Is a very strict man.”

“Oh.” Gently sank into one of the chairs with a small sigh. Bacchus was hovering behind him like a mother hen. Rachel slid over the file, thick with scraps of paper. “Alright, what do we have?”

Bodie was only half-listening as Rachel and Bacchus filled Gently in. His focus was on his partner who had now returned to sitting on the desk edge. A faint frown dinted between his eyebrows and he kept glancing towards Gently and Bacchus.

There was a knock on the door and, since he was closest, Bodie turned to open it. A policeman, of a similar age to Bodie and Doyle, shuffled inside closely followed by Taylor.

“Oh, right. Stoker, hello.” Bacchus turned to greet the young man. He was of average height with long, spidery limbs, wavy hair and a round face. There was a plaster over one eyebrow. His police uniform was perfect, Bodie noted.

Stoker was also standing to an approximation of attention. Rachel nodded at him. “Will you tell us what happened, detective constable?”

Stoker took a quick breath and licked his lips. “Well,” he began, “Well… Burton and I were doing our patrol as normal when this – this van suddenly roars past us. It nearly hit me! I managed to dive out of the way, but I whacked my head.” He gestured to the injury. “I was kinda dazed, but I saw this bloke jump out and grab Burton.”

“What did he look like?” Doyle asked.

The answer was a shrug. “Tall,” Stoker said, “He was a big guy, but he was wearing a mask.” A frown flitted across his face and Stoker added, “The van… it was blue. I didn’t get the license.”

“That’s alright,” Rachel reassured him quickly, “Anything else?”

Stoker scratched his head. “The bumper was dented, I think. I remember seeing it when I was on the ground.”

“That’s a lot of help,” Bodie grumbled. Doyle shot him a sharp look and Bodie amended wearily, “But anything is useful.”

Stoker nodded. Taylor put a hand on his shoulder and began to usher him towards the door. Stoker halted suddenly and spun around. Running a hand through his sandy hair, he blurted, “I want to help – sir. Because Burton was my friend and I can’t just go and check on some old woman’s imaginary break-in when there’s a serial killer comin’ after us.” He stared hopefully at Bacchus, fist clenching and unclenching.

They all looked to Bacchus; except Gently, Bodie noticed. Instead, it was Bacchus who automatically turned to seek Gently’s – approval? Or permission? Bodie wasn’t sure.

Gently shrugged almost imperceptibly and Bacchus turned back to Stoker. “Ok,” he said, “Ok. But I’ll talk to you later.” He shook his head and added, “I don’t want to put anyone in more danger than they have to be, alright?”

A flash of disappointment flitted across Stoker’s features, but he nodded in return. “Thank you, sir.”

“Off you go.”

The door shut behind Taylor and Stoker. Rachel began to scribble in her notebook. “Any ideas?” she asked.

Doyle appeared to shake himself out of his trance. “The killer’s targeting policemen. Very particular modus operandi: takes them off the streets to… somewhere – must be nearby – and tortures them.”

“Finally kills his victims by hanging them,” Bodie finished. “They have a pattern that they’re following.”

Rachel nodded and said, “But why was Harriet different? She was strangled.”

“Spur of the moment,” Bacchus clicked his fingers, “Our murderer wasn’t intending to kill anyone.”

Bodie quirked an eyebrow at him and asked, “You think her killing was just the beginning?”

Bacchus nodded. “Because he liked it, or because he got away with it, the Hanging Judge decided to go on a killing spree.”

Doyle tugged an errant curl back into place, “The hanging is what’s interesting me. Why hanging?”

“Justice,” Gently said quietly. Everyone stared at him. Gently pushed the file away across the table and looked up at them. “Every one of these police officers started working before sixty-five.”

Bodie quickly glanced at Doyle to see him looking just as blank and asked, “What?”

“Nineteen-sixty-five,” Gently repeated slowly, “ _Before_ capital punishment was outlawed in England.” He gestured with his pen, “I think that the killer had a family member or friend who was executed for some crime. It’s likely that they were quite young if they’re only starting killing now.”

“Or someone who’s just lost enough to feel justified in doing it?” Rachel interrupted.

Gently nodded, acknowledging her statement. “They’re extracting their own brand of justice – revenge on a system that took away someone they cared about.”

“That’s…” Bacchus grinned at the old man. “See, sir?” he said triumphantly, “I told you’d be helpful.” He turned back to Bodie, Doyle and Rachel. Clapping his hands together, he said, “Right. Rachel and I will go and find this van. Mr Bodie and Mr Doyle, I want you two to watch Freddie Jackson. You’re undercover anyway.” Bodie tried not to let his annoyance show.

You’re here on loan, he reminded himself, as he moved next to Doyle. Doyle still looked like he was trying to remember something important.

“Wait,” Gently’s gaze had become worried, “I just had a nasty thought.”

“Yeah?”

Gently rubbed his forehead, “The killer, they’re targeting police officers who worked before sixty-five, right?”

“Right,” Rachel said, “At least, that’s our new theory.”

“How do they know?”

There was a brief moment of silence. “You work on that, sir,” Bacchus offered at last. “Get Stoker to help you.”

Bodie and Doyle left the room, not waiting for Gently’s answer. They were half-way down the corridor when Doyle suddenly gasped, “Shit!”

“What?”

“George Gently! We’re only working with Inspector George _bloody_ Gently!”

***

The sky had turned grey again.

Bodie sighed and leant his head back against the headrest. He hated stakeouts. Beside him, Doyle checked his watch. “Four hours,” Doyle said.

Bodie just closed his eyes. “Anything worth noting down yet?”

“Not really, Jackson’s not surfaced.” He heard Doyle shift in his seat and opened his eyes to see his partner rubbing his eyes, the cut above his eyebrow still an angry red. He looked as tired as he sounded.

“You alright, mate?”

“What? Yeah, yeah… I’m just…” Doyle echoed Bodie’s sigh. “I’m bored, Bodie. I’m bored and tired and angry. This killer’s running circles around us. All we’ve got is a van with a dented bunker.”

“Two suspects, though,” Bodie said, laying a hand on Doyle’s shoulder. “We’ll find them, we always do.”

A low laugh answered him, but it was only half-mocking. “’Course we will. Go in guns blazing then? Full SAS response?”

Bodie grinned and ruffled Doyle’s curls. “Lucky for you, my son, you have a fully-trained ex-SAS soldier protecting your back.”

“Gerroff.” Doyle batted his partner’s hand away as he went towards his thigh. “We’re watching the hotel, Bodie.”

“And nothing’s happening.” He pouted, savouring the mixture of annoyance and fondness in Doyle’s expression. An idea pinged inside Bodie’s head and he grinned suddenly. Turning his hand into a spider, he began to creep it along Doyle’s thigh.

Doyle flinched.

Immediately Bodie drew his hand back. “Sorry, was that…?”

“No,” Doyle sounded uncomfortable: embarrassed, even. “No, Bodie.”

“You’re not telling me you’re afraid of spiders,” Bodie said, trying to turn the moment into a joke. He expected Doyle to retort, or flip him the two fingers, or just give him a look.

But Doyle dropped his chin into his chest and muttered, “Jack.”

Bodie’s heart lurched. He could feel the blood pumping through his body, his forehead throbbing, fingers tingling. He’d suspected, but hearing it was a different matter.

 “You were together,” Bodie said.

Doyle nodded. He still wasn’t looking at Bodie.

Of course, Doyle would have had lovers before him, Bodie’s logical brain supplied. You did. It didn’t matter to him and it doesn’t matter to you. But there was still something that felt off, something that made Bodie feel morbid. “Tell me about him?”

Doyle took a breath. “He was a copper when I started. I was a kid who’d just joined. Some of the older coppers knew my, uh, background so they were all watching me. Like bloody hawks.” He paused to run a hand through his hair. “They all reckoned I was gonna burn out or end up getting arrested or something.”

“Bad boy, were you? Terror of… Derby, was it?”

Doyle’s lips quirked momentarily. “Something like that.”

Nudging Doyle’s shoulder, Bodie said gently, “Makes a change from a saintly Sherlock Holmes. Go on then.”

“Well, I was getting strips torn off me for some tiny mistake. I don’t even remember what it was and, all of a sudden, Jack’s there, an’ he’s giving off to the Sergeant. Took me out for a drink after work. We got chatting and he started looking after me in the station, you know, watching my back.”

Bodie nodded understandingly. “You fancied him.”

“Christ, Bodie, I worshipped the ground he walked on.” Doyle still wasn’t looking at him. “He was charming and gorgeous and, God, he talked to me like I was a person, not a bloody project.”

Shifting in his seat so he was facing Doyle, Bodie asked, “When was this?”

His voice was distant, “What we were doing was illegal, I knew it. He knew it. But the thing was: _he just didn’t care_. He was twenty-three, I was nineteen… I was an idiot.”

“God, Ray.” Foreboding stirred in Bodie’s stomach. “What happened?”

“I thought it was real.” He slammed his hand into his knee and not the dashboard, seemingly remembering that they were on a stakeout. “He was engaged to be married. Had been before I’d met him. I was nothing but a convenient fuck.”

Bodie didn’t say anything. Doyle’s eyes were wet, and he was chewing on his lip so hard that Bodie was worried he’d bite through.

“I confronted him. Told ‘im that by the upcoming laws of the land, I was underage. Threatened to get him done for statutory rape of a minor.”

“And?”

“He laughed in my face. Politely informed me that I’d still committed a crime and, with my reputation, it’d be his word against mine. I’d be chucked out of the police force and then everyone’d find out that I was a poof.” Doyle touched his misshapen cheekbone, only now meeting Bodie’s gaze. “I’d had enough trouble with that already.”

Silence ruled. Impotent fury was rushing up through Bodie’s chest. He turned away and stared out of the front windscreen, drumming his fingers on the dashboard.

Doyle’s next murmur made it worse. “You remember the Susie Carter case?”

Bodie nodded, stomach swirling. The atmosphere was roasting now, Bodie’s quiet anger sparking in the air. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Doyle cast his gaze down again. “Ann Berry… I understood why she did it. Blackmail’s not fun.”

He realised that his fingers were curled into tight fists. Bodie forced himself to relax, to be calm. Jack was dead. There was no one to take it out on. His voice was very steady and almost inaudible.

“Why did you call him a friend?”

Doyle didn’t answer.

***

The pen bounced off the edge of the chair and hit the floor with a dull noise. Gently hissed quietly to himself and leant down to try and scoop it up. Almost as soon as he’d managed to grab it, the pen slipped out of his fingers again. After three tries, he gave up and reached across for another one.

Fucking MS.

Rubbing a shaking hand through his white hair, Gently bent down to peer short-sightedly at the files in front of him. The words wavered in his vision, blurred by unnatural fatigue. Maybe it was a good thing John had insisted on getting him to look through old case files rather than join him and Rachel in their search for the van. While Gently felt that being out in the fresh air was far preferable to searching through dusty papers, he reluctantly had to admit that he’d only have slowed them down.

“Everything alright, sir?”

Gently looked up into Stoker’s concerned face. “Yes, yes,” he said quickly. He gestured to the other chair. “What have you found?”

Stoker shrugged, “Neither Kenneth or Jerome Drover have any family members that were hanged, sir. Freddie Jackson’s second cousin was, though.”

“Were they close?”

“Moderately, sir.”

“Damn.” Gently took off his glasses to rub his eyes. “Something’s nagging at me, Stoker.”

“What?”

“I don’t think our friend is working alone,” Gently said slowly, “Because one person wouldn’t have had the time to get someone like Jack Morrison into a van and drive off – he was built like an ox! Morrison’s beat crossed over with a few others and they’d all synchronised watches so they’d reach the corner at the same time. There were only five to eight minutes between when he was last seen and when he missed his slot.”

Stoker’s voice took on an edge, “I guess that would make sense, sir, but I didn’t see more than one person during the attack.”

Gently rubbed his lip thoughtfully, “I’m not trying to insult you, Stoker. I wouldn’t really expect you to be able to have a perfect testimony. I’m just saying it’s possible.” Stoker looked marginally mollified. “And looking more probable.”

“I’ll make some tea,” Stoker said. Gently smiled at him and bent back over the reports, searching for an answer.

***

Doyle came into the hotel room to see Bodie making the beds. “Don’t tell me that you’ve suddenly gotten house-proud!” he exclaimed, eyebrows knotting together.

Bodie shot him a withering look. “No,” he replied, “We’re going to have company and we don’t want them to realise that we’ve been sleeping in the same bed, do we?”

Nodding in reluctant agreement, Doyle sat down on the bed, “Company?”

“Inspector Bacchus and the rest are meeting us here in ten minutes,” Bodie said as he tucked away their suitcases, “What did the old man say?”

“Cowley? Not much – just said we’re to stay on it until we catch the bastard.” Doyle flopped back, arms under his head. “I made sure that he knew that it was Bacchus who was driving, not either of us.” He tilted his head towards Bodie. “Why are they coming here?”

“Gently found something and apparently he’s paranoid enough to want to tell us here instead of at the station. Budge over.” Bodie landed on the bed almost squashing Doyle’s arm. They lay together, staring at the cracked ceiling, listening to the other’s breathing. Doyle was aware of a rising desire to grab Bodie and hug him close just so he could feel the heat of his partner’s body. It was… strange. They had fun, right? It wasn’t anything really serious? That was all.

You can’t afford it, Doyle, he thought, just as long as you work well together, that was all that was important.

But then Bodie rolled over and reached out to touch him. “Are you OK, mate?”

Doyle nodded. “I’m alright… I’m better than I was.” He paused and decided to take the jump. “You?”

He felt Bodie shrug. “I’m alright too.”

The hotel phone rang suddenly, shattering the silence. Doyle groaned and sat up on the bed. Straightening his shirt, he stood up and walked over to the phone. “They’re on their way up,” he reported.

Bodie nodded and heaved himself up, brushing a speck of fluff off his shoulder. “Just making myself presentable, dear,” he joked when Doyle glanced at him.

There was a knock on the door. Doyle moved towards it, hesitated, and then went back for his gun. Bodie watched him carefully, sincerely. Holding the gun low in one hand, Doyle eased open the door. Bacchus and Gently were visible through the crack, Bacchus raised an eyebrow when he noticed Doyle. Stepping back, Doyle opened the door fully and gestured the two men in. Bacchus clearly wanted to make some crack, but he restrained himself.

Ignoring Gently’s imperious look towards his firearm, Doyle shut the door behind them and asked, “Where’s Detective Coles?”

“On her way,” Bacchus said, “Some things to clear up at the station. Well?”

Doyle frowned, “Well, what?”

“Freddie Jackson, you –“ Again, Bacchus controlled himself and said, “What have you found about Freddie Jackson?”

Doyle looked to Bodie who shrugged. “Only one interesting fact,” he said coldly, “Freddie Jackson’s first marriage broke down because, get this, his ex-wife had an affair with a police officer.”

“And not just any police officer,” Doyle continued, “Luke Constance –“ he broke off, staring at Gently, “Do you want a seat, sir?”

Gently blinked at him, surprised, but nodded. “That would be appreciated, yes,” he said. Bodie seemed to see that the man was swaying ever so slightly and jumped off the bed. Gently sank into his place before signalling for Doyle to continue what he was saying.

“Anyway,” Doyle hurried into the rest of the sentence to deflect Bodie’s scrutiny of Gently, sensing that the man wouldn’t welcome his weakness being made apparent, “Luke Constance and Eleanor Jackson had a three-month affair before Jackson found out. Was furious, apparently, threatened Constance in broad daylight. He and Eleanor divorced not long after.”

Bacchus rubbed his chin. “Would he be angry enough to kill a man over it?”

“Maybe, unlikely, though.”

“Also,” Bodie chipped in, “I don’t think he’d be angry enough to kill five police officers either. I don’t think he’s our culprit because he’d likely have gone for Constance first.”

“Yes,” Gently said, “I think you’re right.”

Turning to Gently, Bacchus interrupted with, “Sir, tell them your theory.”

Sighing deeply, Gently looked askance at the younger man. “I was about to, John.”

“Sorry.”

Gently sat forwards on the bed, the springs creaking as he moved. “I think there’s more than one killer. I think it's two people working together.” He ran a hand through his hair and continued, “Jack Morrison and Gregory Howard were both heavily built and snatched with a very small timeframe between their disappearance and the discovery of these disappearances. One person would have had a lot of difficulty in subduing someone in that short time period.”

Bodie nodded, but countered with, “Not if they were surprised. The killer could have chloroformed their victims, knocked them out, before getting them into the van.”

“I think you’ve forgotten how long it takes to knock someone out with chloroform,” Doyle replied, “Plus the victim is at full strength until they fall unconscious.” At the Bacchus and Gently’s odd looks, he waved a hand, “We had to pull an agent out of a bad situation once when his cover was blown. It took us a while to get to him.”

Bacchus rubbed his eyes with a clear expression of ‘I’m-not-going-to-ask’, before turning towards the door. “I think Gently’s right. I think there are two killers. And I think that it’s the Drover brothers.”

Gently said, “We shouldn’t rule out Jackson and his wife yet, but I don’t think they are responsible.”

Doyle pushed himself off the wall where he’d been leaning. He brushed down his shirt again and tugged on his ear. “I think we should question them.”

“What now?”

“Now. Unofficially,” Doyle said. He caught Gently’s pained look. “You two don’t have the authority, but we do.”

Bodie grinned, “That’s why you call in CI5.” Gently wasn’t mollified, so he added, “Don’t worry. We’ll do it covertly and not hurt anyone. You two can stay nearby if you want.”

Finally Gently exhaled heavily. “Fine,” he said, “Is it alright with you, John?” Bacchus nodded in response. “Alright. Lead the way.”

They left the room and walked down the stairs towards the bar. Doyle could sense Gently’s revulsion at whatever images his brain was throwing up in regards to CI5’s interrogation methods. He wanted to reassure him that Bodie was going to keep his word, but they were too close to the bar now with little noise from inside to cover his words. He could hear someone stacking glasses inside and a quick glance inside showed him that it was Jackson.

He moved forward, seeing Bacchus walk to the edge of the door and wait, when something flew through the window, showered glass and ignited.

***

The explosion of heat sent them staggering back, animalistic instincts seizing control of their muscles. Doyle hit the wall, his undignified slide to the floor only arrested by the roughness of the plaster and the sudden blast of life in his legs.

It took him a moment to realise that someone was screaming.

Casting his gaze about wildly, Doyle spotted Bodie dragging Bacchus away from the bar. Flashes of fire were licking at the hem of his coat and Doyle leapt forward with a yelp. Gently got there first, stamping heavily on the flames then reaching down to haul the younger man to his feet. The smoke was pouring out from the flames and blanketing the ceiling, rapidly dropping to engulf the four men.

Someone was still screaming. Doyle’s head whipped around to focus on the centre of the bar-room blaze. “Jackson!” he cried and made to drive back into the room. Maybe he could go pull him out –

Strong arms wrapped around his torso, wrenching him away. “Don’t you dare!” Bodie snarled, “It’s too late, anyway.” It was true, the whole of the bar was on fire now, the flames flickering like demonic dancers. But Doyle fought briefly, trying to wrench himself free. “Don’t, Ray,” Bodie begged in his ear, “It’s too late.”

Doyle nodded, tears streaming down his face (from the smoke or the screams he didn’t know) and Bodie let go, instead turning to go to the aid of Bacchus. Doyle grabbed Gently, knowing that the old man was about to repeat his action. “Get to the fire exit!” he screamed and then bent double, spluttering his lungs out. “Go! Go!

Bodie led the way, hauling Bacchus with him while Doyle took up the rear, pushing Gently. The ex-policeman was struggling with the smoke, wheezing and staggering. Only half-way down the corridor, his knees buckled and Doyle had to grab him again. Gently gave him a quick nod, but Doyle didn’t let go. Helping the man along the corridor – despite the smoke burning in his throat – Doyle managed to catch up them up with Bacchus and Bodie. The other two were banging on a fire door at the end of the corridor along with a family of three in their pyjamas. The woman was hugging a toddler who was crying and choking in the gloom. 

Doyle’s stomach flipped. He didn’t need Bodie’s shout to know that the door was blocked.

We’re trapped, he thought sickly.

“What’s happening?” Gently croaked.

Bacchus, sleeve over his mouth, pointed back towards the stairs. “We need to – “ he broke off, coughing, “Upstairs. Find a window.”  He pushed the young father. Together, the group broke into a run, scrambling up to the second floor. The smoke was thickening, flames sparking in the encroaching darkness.

Bodie took charge, sounding military and official, while Doyle herded the stragglers that staggered from their rooms; panic leaking through their expressions, the ancient triggers for fear all firmly pressed. Seven more joined the group, mostly businessmen and one or two couples on holiday, but it was difficult to tell in the gloom of smoke.

They were nearly at the back of the hotel when an ominous cracking shuddered along the floor and walls. Doyle had enough time to notice a flash of orange before Gently yanked him forwards towards the group. A beam crashed down where he’d just been, showering sparks like a firework. He jerked his chin as a thank you, but a crouched shape down another corridor caught his attention.

The blue ribbon just visible through the smoke identified the person. Gently broke away from Doyle and rushed over to Pauline Jackson, heedless to the splintering of the roof. Crouching low, he grabbed the sobbing woman’s shoulders and heaved her to her feet, supporting her weight. Doyle bit back a curse and went to help –

Just as another beam fell in. Flames exploded outwards, driving Doyle back again. The acrid smell was overwhelming. He stumbled and almost fell. “Gently!”

Where were they?

The fire was spreading along the floor towards him, smoke filling the corridor fully now. The heat was intense and Doyle turned away, nausea swirling in his stomach. There wasn’t anything he could do. Hurrying down the corridor, bent double, he saw Bodie waving at him from inside one of the hotel rooms. Diving through the door and shutting it behind him, he saw one of the windows was open and Bacchus was lowering the toddler into someone’s waiting arms.

An escape ladder, Doyle realised, they’d found a way out. He ran over and began to help people climb through the gap. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bodie stuff the pillows at the base of the door, keeping the smoke out of the relatively clear room.

It felt like forever, but very quickly he, Bodie and Bacchus were the only ones left. Bacchus turned around. “Where’s Gently?” he screamed at them. Doyle could only shake his head. He and Bodie were ready, though, as Bacchus tried to run back out into the corridor. They seized an arm each and ferried the man, kicking and yelling, to the window. A red helmet was rising into view, underneath was a sooty face – help had arrived.

They made it to the ground, retching and coughing, as Bacchus was taken from their care by two burly firefighters and dragged over to an ambulance.

Bodie grabbed Doyle’s arm and squeezed it tight. A thousand emotions were clear through the tiny movement. Doyle leaned into him, blinking watering eyes. A strange, disjointed swell of anger stirred his gut: not for the arsonist or Gently’s idiot rescue attempt, but for the fact that they couldn’t do more than this, couldn’t imitate the couples currently in snug embraces.

“What happened, Ray?” Bodie asked in his ear, “What happened to Gently?”

“He – he went back,” Doyle coughed again, seeing the paramedics making their way towards them, “Went back for Pauline, the stupid sod. The roof came in.”

Bodie looked up to the burning hotel. It lit up the darkness like a hellish lamp. “Is he dead?”

“Dunno, I don’t think they got hit.” A shock blanket was dropped around his shoulders and they were led towards the festival of sirens and flashing lights. As they passed the first fire engine, Doyle quickly gave Gently and Pauline’s last known location, but soon they were both tucked up in an ambulance, with oxygen masks.

“Mr Doyle! Mr Bodie!” Rachel’s voice made them turn. She was sitting in the back of the ambulance, her right arm tied up in a sling. “Thank God, you’re OK. Where’s John and Gently?”

Doyle opened his mouth and shut it again.

Rachel noticed. Her uninjured hand came up to her mouth, “Oh, God.” She made to rush off when something made her stop. “John!”

John Bacchus strode forwards, shaking off the firefighter’s arm. The red blanket curled off his shoulders to land with a soft sound on the tarmac as he raised his fist. Doyle reacted quickly, bringing up his arm to deflect the blow. “You fucking left him to die!”

“It wasn’t like I had a choice! The hall was on fire. I tried to stop him!” Doyle seized Bacchus’ wrist, feeling a shameful thrill in being able to immobilise the movement. “I’ve told the firefighters where he was last seen and that he went back for Pauline Jackson. He was alive the last time I saw him…”

Bacchus sagged into the ambulance, holding his head in his hands. He was fighting tears. “Jesus Christ, I hope he had the sense he was born with to find another window.”

Nodding as non-patronisingly as he could, Bodie moved over to give the man more room. As he did so, he seemed to properly see Rachel for the first time. “What happened to you?”

She shrugged gingerly with a faraway look on her face. The stink of the burning house rose between them like a ghost. “I caught Kenneth Drover torching the place.”

“What?” Bacchus raised his head, his face white with shock and dust.

“Threw a Molotov Cocktail through the bar windae,” Rachel said slowly. She was watching the firefighters with a frown on her face. “He and Jerome were both there; I chased ‘em and tackled Kenneth.” Gesturing to her arm, she continued, “He fought back, but a coupla of the other first responders held him down for me. He’s on his way to the police station right now.”

A small smile cracked Doyle’s lips. “I guess that’s a mystery solved, Kenneth and Jerome were our Hanging Judges after all.” 

Rachel’s gaze suddenly lit up and she jumped to her feet. They all followed her gaze.

Hanging between two firefighters; sooty, stumbling, but still clearly alive and angry, was the distinctive form of ex-Chief Inspector George Gently.

***

They were barely through the door of the new hotel room before they were crashed up against a wall, clumsy fingers fumbling for shirt buttons, rough kisses bruising against skin. Heat rose between them; not the burning of violent flames, but something sharper, desired, wanted. Fingers gripped arms hard enough to leave purplish bruises, lips left red marks, each needing to feel that the other was alive and here and still breathing.

In the end, they slept, entangled with each other in the golden rose of relief.

Exhaustion kept the nightmares at bay.

***

Something was bothering Gently. His prolonged stay in the hospital while the others had been given the all clear had been… irritating, to say the least, but the sleepless night had given him plenty of time to think. As he pulled on his socks – grimy and horrible as they were – his brain was ticking over.

From what little he knew; Kenneth Drover had been captured at the scene, red-handed. His brother, Jerome, was a fugitive, but Gently had every confidence that the Durham police force would be able to pick him up before long. Jerome may know a little about living off the land, but he hadn’t had any time to pick up supplies from home, so he was running on his wits alone. Jerome may have been the brains; however, he wasn’t a genius and Gently was sure that the CI5 men would have a fair idea of how to catch someone quickly. Bodie had given off a military air that Gently had to grudgingly respect: he’d certainly know what to do.

No, the Drover brothers weren’t concerning him. What he was concerned about, he admitted to himself as he shoved his feet into his shoes, was how the brothers had gotten the information about when the victims had started working. How could Kenneth and Jerome have known?

If, of course, he thought ruefully, they had actually had a clear idea of victims beyond ‘police’.

But it was too much of a coincidence to be ignored.

Gently wandered down the hospital corridor, mulling over the problem. The clinical smell of antiseptic assaulted his senses and he often had to step aside to let hurrying nurses in their white-and-blue starched uniforms past. If he was right about the dates, then how did Jerome and Kenneth find out about that? In fact, Bacchus and Rachel hadn’t found any evidence of Jerome and Kenneth having access to a vehicle of any kind.

The low bright sun, uncharacteristic of the last few dull weeks, made Gently’s eyes smart as he stepped outside to wait on Bacchus. Despite the sun, the air was cold and Gently hunched his shoulders further into his jumper. There must be a missing link. A third person, perhaps?

He really wanted a cigarette. And a nap. And a bath.

Gently checked his watch. It had taken some serious arguing on his part for John to even let him come back to work and Gently had finally had to compromise with spending a half-day at his own house before heading back to the station. John had promised to pick him up about this time. Hopefully, he hadn’t been forgotten about.

“Sir!”

He turned around, shading his eyes. “Oh. It’s you. Hello, Stoker.”

“No need to sound so disappointed, sir,” Stoker said as he waved Gently towards the police car. “Mr Bacchus is chasing a sighting of Jerome Drover. He sent me instead.” He opened the passenger door for Gently.

Gently eyed him wearily. “I’m not an invalid, son.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Gently sighed. He climbed into the car, waited for Stoker to get into the driver’s seat and added, “It just gets wearing, you know?”

Stoker nodded and started the engine. They pulled out of the hospital parking spaces and onto the main room. “Home, is it, sir?”

“No, take me to the station,” Gently said.

“But Mr Bacchus said…” Stoker protested weakly.

“If he’s out chasing Drover then he won’t know, will he?” Gently replied amiably while wanting to clip the young man around the head, “A good police officer knows when to disregard orders, remember that. Besides, there’s something I need to tell him, urgently.”

Nodding seriously, Stoker said, “We’ll have to go the long way, sir. There was an accident between here and the station.” Gently sat back, accepting the statement as a minor annoyance. There was no point in yelling at the man. The wind was whistling through the open window.

“Can you close that, please?” he asked.

 “I don’t want to do that, sir,” Stoker told him, “This car smells really weird if you do that.”

“This your car?”

“Borrowed it from the carpool this morning, sir.” Stoker indicated right out of town. “We can come back in from the east, sir,” he said.

“Good idea,” Gently murmured, not really listening. “Stoker, I need to ask you something important.”

“Yes, sir?”

“When Burton was snatched, you said you only saw one attacker, right?”

“Right,” Stoker answered, overtaking an antique car. “Of course, we know I was wrong, sir. There were two that grabbed Burton.”

“And the van drove off immediately afterwards?”

“Y-es,” the syllables were drawn-out.

He was getting somewhere, puzzle pieces clicking into place, “But if both Drover brothers got out, who was driving the van? There’s got to be another person! There’s a third man!”

Stoker went very, very still. He didn’t look at Gently.

Anxiety suddenly tore at Gently’s gut. Instinctively, he looked around. They were alone on the road, all traffic gone. Not what he would have expected if the main road was closed.

Something’s wrong, he realised bleakly, something is wrong. Something he’d ignored.

Stoker smiled slowly. “You know,” he began, “I know why you’re so admired as a detective, sir.”

Gently’s hand crept towards the door handle, but the car was still flying along the road. If he jumped out now, he’d end up looking like Burton. Crushed into dust, obliterated. Even if he survived the impact; he’d be in no shape to run. He tried to think, beads of sweat sliding under his woollen jumper. Did Stoker have a weapon? Could he defend himself in this small space, now? Did he risk Stoker crashing on these hills?

Then Stoker spoke again, relishing Gently’s position. “But I’m disappointed. You forgot something important…”

Movement from the backseats. Gently attempted to turn, go for the door handle. He wasn’t fast enough.

A hand clamped over his mouth, cloth smothering his voice, sweetness suddenly surging into his lungs. Gently’s eyes widened and he grabbed the wrist. Another arm whipped across his throat, pinning him to the seat.

“Be good, copper, just breathe…” Jerome Drover murmured in his ear. Gently fought, scratching at the arm trapping him, twisting, kicking at the dashboard.

But the more he struggled, the more oxygen he needed and the more the chloroform’s poison seeped into his lungs. He felt dizzy, shocked. The serpentine grip across his neck tightened, causing him to panic. He thrashed desperately, seeing the Durham countryside slowly bleed away…

No hope. No escape.

“Good night, co…”

***

“Nuthin’,” Doyle growled as they made their way back up the steps and into the police station. The sun was high in the sky now, glinting against his curls. “Another false lead, another –“

Bodie ruffled Doyle’s hair reassuringly. “He won’t get far,” he said in the singsong voice of numerous repeats.

“That’s what’s worrying me,” Doyle retorted. “How haven’t we caught him already? How is he outrunning us?” 

Bodie shrugged and waved his partner down the corridor towards Bacchus and Rachel’s office. He could almost hear Doyle’s brain ticking over from here.

Admittedly, the same thoughts were running through his mind. Jerome had been on the run for almost fifteen hours already and no one had found hide nor hair of him. It was like the man had vanished.

Bacchus appeared out of the office with the stride of a man on a mission.

“Oh, Detective Bacchus –“ Bodie began. Bacchus brushed past him, not making eye contact, with an expression that could have been carved from granite. He didn’t say a word, just stormed down towards the stairs. “He’s gone.”

Doyle frowned and turned around to watch Bacchus disappear. “What’s eating ‘im?”

“The same thing that’s eating you?” Bodie suggested. He placed a hand on Doyle’s back and turned him back around to face the office. “I suggest we leave him alone.”

“Definitely,” Doyle agreed. He let Bodie manoeuvre him into the office where a map of Durham was pinned on the wall. Across the city were thick crosses drawn in red pen; Doyle quickly added another one to one of the back streets. He shook his head.

“No luck?” They both turned to see Rachel standing behind them, the white of her sling stark against her dark coat. Fatigue dripped from each word, only half-hidden by her smile.

“No,” Bodie shrugged and yawned, “Any idea how he’s outrunning us?”

“No,” Rachel said, her frustrations clear on her face. “He must be in the hills somewhere.”

“Or someone’s helping him,” Doyle said, “He could be holed up in someone’s house. Did he have a weapon?”

Clearing some of the mess on her desk, Rachel replied, “Dunno. I don’t think he did, but Jerome could have grabbed a knife pretty easily.” She sighed and sank into the chair. “We’re making a mess of it.”

There was silence for a moment, the three of them deep in thought. Suddenly Bodie sat up. “Kenneth!” 

“What?” Rachel raised her eyebrows.

“Maybe he knows something,” Bodie insisted. He grabbed Doyle’s arm, “C’mon.”

Gaze hardening as he realised what Bodie was saying, Doyle rose smoothly and began to follow him down the corridor. Rachel ran after them.

“You can’t beat up prisoners!” she hissed.

The look Bodie gave her was pitying, “That’s why you called in CI5, right? ‘By any means possible’? It’s our loophole.”

“But…”

They ignored her as they strode towards the holding cells. They could hear a thumping coming from the end cell, from Kenneth’s cell. “Alright, Kenny,” Doyle called through the door, “We’re gonna need some assistance from you.”

The voice that issued through the tiny slot was most definitely not Kenny’s. “Let me out!”

“Taylor?” Rachel barged past Bodie and Doyle and wrenched down the viewing slot. “Taylor, what happened?”

Taylor’s gaze was steady, but there was a gleam of worry that was hard to miss. “Mr Bacchus.”

***

Opening his eyes felt like trying to swim up through mud. Almost as soon as he’d managed it his eyelids slid closed again, leaving him with a snapshot of blurred greys and blacks and whites. His head felt close to exploding, his thoughts thick and twisting. He tried again, forcing his eyes open and keeping them that way; the world distorted and dizzying.

Who… what…?

Suddenly his stomach flipped and he twisted his head to the side to vomit – or try to, at least. Evidently, there was nothing there. 

He slumped back just as the roaring in his ears faded to be replaced with “… call that pretty fuckin’ alive.”

Gently blinked and shook his head, regretting it immediately as the roar renewed itself, drowning the other voice’s response. But his vision was slowly sharpening and Gently made to raise a hand to shield his eyes from the harsh light overhead. Metal rattled.

Panic plunged into the empty pit of Gently’s confusion. He was restrained – handcuffed – to a metal chair. Every movement he made felt agonisingly slow and, while he could see the room he was being held in more clearly now, his thoughts were moving at the same pace.

Taking quick, fortifying breaths, he tried to focus on his surroundings. The roof of the room was high, the walls blank white. Beyond his feet, chipped black and white tiles stretched wall-to-wall, grass twisting through the cracks. There were two people standing in front of him…

Finally, his brain coughed up a recognisable thought and he slurred weakly, “’ello Stoker.”

Stoker’s laugh came from a long way away, “Well done, sir! From unconsciousness to derision in less than a minute! You’ve broken the record, sir.”

Gently tried to snarl a response, but the aftereffects of the chloroform were still lingering in his throat. He settled for a dismissive grunt instead, fighting the dark clouds in his head. He was slipping back –

Someone slapped him and it was like being dumped into cold water. Gently’s eyes snapped open in shock. Jerome was in his face, a twisted grin disfiguring his mouth. “No, no, you need to be awake, copper. It ruins the fun otherwise.”

The panic in his stomach was slowly being replaced with pure fear. Jerome stepped behind him and kicked the chair he was chained to. It rolled forwards slightly. Gently started at the movement; causing the handcuffs to chime again. Jerome began to push the wheelchair towards the door, the wheels squeaking across the tiles. Stoker held the door open for them. He grinned at Gently as they passed, a victorious light in his eyes. Gently felt chilled to the bone.

He was wheeled into a long corridor, desperately trying to free his wrists from the shackles. He cast his gaze around wildly, searching for some way to escape, some tiny clue to where he was.

Walls that were once white; the paint peeling and plaster smashed on the faded floor. The few windows they passed were high and small; boarded-up or simply barred. The doors were cell-like, dull metal slabs with bolts and locks. The lights were nearly all broken.

What was this place?

Jerome suddenly halted the chair in front of a wooden door. It was in much better condition than anything they’d passed before. Stoker walked around them and grabbed the doorknob.

Gently wet his lips and croaked, “Is this where you hanged them, Stoker?”

Stoker laughed. “Oh no,” he said, “No beams in here, sir. The ceiling’s not high enough.”

Then he opened the door, beckoning Jerome to bring Gently through.

The first thing that Gently saw was an operating table in the centre of the room. The second was the electronic monstrosity beside it. His heart jumped into his throat, adrenaline pumping furiously.

He knew. He knew what he was looking at. He knew what that machine did. “You’re not putting me in that thing!” 

But he was pushed closer, powerless to prevent it.

“Let me go! I’m not going in that!”

He was ignored. Jerome caught one of his wrists, fitting a small silver key into the lock. Stoker grabbed the other, unlocking the cuff. Gently swung madly, missing both men. A hard-knuckled fist slammed into his cheek. Stunned, he offered little resistance as hands closed around his chest and legs. It was as though he had no weight; Stoker and Jerome lifted him easily onto the table. He twisted, but Jerome was there, a knife pressed against his throat, coercing him into stillness and submission. He felt leather bite his skin as Stoker buckled the table’s restraints around his wrist.

“Let me go, you bastards! Let me go!”

“Oh shut up,” Stoker said. “You’ll lose your voice.”

“Fuck you –“ Jerome’s free hand clamped over his mouth, cutting off his curse. The cold metal of the knife burned his neck as Jerome dug it in deeper, enough to break the skin and hurt, but not kill.

“Are you going to be quiet?” Jerome asked as Stoker busied himself immobilising his prisoner. Gently stared at him, not really sure how he was supposed to answer. Jerome lifted the knife slightly. Gently nodded. Jerome removed his hand. Immediately Gently opened his mouth again, only to see Jerome’s threatening look.

He met the stare, resolving not to give either of his captors the pleasure of knowing that he was shit-scared. 

Jerome moved away.

“I’m glad you’re awake now, sir. For a minute there, we thought you might die.” Stoker tugged the strap tighter across Gently’s ankle. “It would be no kind of death for a man of your achievements to choke on his own sick… or have an allergic reaction.” He clicked his tongue sadly, “I thought Rueben would have been better, but that’s the risk we take with chloroform, I’m afraid.” 

Gently didn’t say anything.

Stoker had finished with the restraints and he was now hovering at the edge of Gently’s vision, fiddling with the machine. There was an expression of acute anticipation on his face as he began to flip switches, humming to himself.

“You’re fucking sick.”

Stoker turned around and tilted his head, looking down at his prisoner. His gaze was mild. “What was that, sir?” he asked.

Gently twisted his wrists, but the straps were still trapping him, holding him in place. “You’re sick, Stoker,” he repeated. “They were your colleagues – your friends. They trusted you!”

“As did you, sir. I’m a trustworthy person.” Stoker shrugged and scratched the side of his nose. “I’ve always just… had that kind of face, sir.”

“You killed them,” Gently said desperately, “You’re supposed to protect your fellow officers. You lie down your life if you have to.” John’s words from all those years ago dropped easily into his mind. “You’d take a bullet for them.”

Stoker paused and regarded Gently more closely for a moment. Then he sat down on the edge of the table like some twisted parody of a parent at the bedside of a child.

“Have you done that, sir?” Stoker asked. “Have you taken a bullet for someone?”

Gently went quiet.

“Because I know that no less than two people have taken one for you.” Stoker took a cigarette out of his pocket and tapped it on the table. “The first time was in Italy, wasn’t it? A man died trying to drag you to safety.”

Gently couldn’t speak.

“Then – in 1968 I believe it was – the inspector took a bullet to the stomach.” He lit the cigarette, blowing a stream of smoke. “For you, sir.” Stoker smiled again. “You must mean a lot to people. You certainly mean something to Inspector Bacchus, sir. He’s on his way here.”

It felt like everything had just dropped away to just him and Stoker in this one room. Gently’s heart clenched nauseatingly. This could not be happening. This wasn’t happening. Hell happening to him? Fine: he was old and sick – a widower with few friends and no family. To John? Still young; still keen; still full of life? John who had a daughter and friends? No. No!

Stoker reached out and stroked a few strands of Gently’s hair back into place. Gently shivered at his touch, unseeing. “That’s why I didn’t want you to strain your voice, sir,” Stoker confided softly as he rested a flat palm on Gently’s chest, as if to feel his captive’s heartbeat, “I need you to scream nice and loud once he arrives.”

***

Taylor halted the car with a screech in front of Gently’s house, barely missing the battered 1965 Ford parked there. He’d barely stopped when Rachel leapt out – stumbling a little awkwardly as she tried to reach out with her injured arm – and rushed across the gravel path towards the door. Behind her, she heard Taylor answer the radio and caught a brief spurt of Doyle’s voice, but she ignored it. Taylor would tell her anything important.

What the hell was Bacchus thinking? Why would he disappear like that?

What exactly was Kenneth, or Jerome for that matter, holding over him? Rachel leant down Gently’s doorbell, hearing the chiming even from outside. “C’mon, sir,” she muttered to herself, “Answer the door… c’mon, c’mon!” She rang again. There was no answer. Impatient, she went to hammer heavily on the front door –

It swung lightly open at her touch. Rachel recoiled like she’d been burned. Glancing over her shoulder to see Taylor advancing up the path, she gestured to him. He looked confused and hurried his pace. When he was standing beside her, Rachel called, “Sir? Are you home? It’s me, Rachel.”

The house was silent. There was no answering shout, no sound of movement. Rachel stepped over the threshold, fervently wishing that she had a weapon. Inside the air felt – wrong. It was too still, too… stuffy. Rachel made her way towards the living room, dread slowly dripping into her stomach. The house felt like it’d been shut-up for two days, at least; everything clean, but unhandled. “Sir…?”

She eased her head around the door leading to the living room. It was clean, tidy, nothing out of place. She was about to move on when something caught her eye. There was something on the table: the space around it meticulously cleared so it would be noticeable from the doorway. Rachel moved towards it, slowly.

Alarm bells were ringing in her head.

It was a photograph; two words were scrawled on the back. Rachel read them in dark confusion, the bells chiming louder. She turned the photograph over. “Oh my God…”

“What?” Taylor looked over her shoulder and blanched. “Fuck,” he breathed. “Is that…”

It was George Gently. Pale, only in his thin shirtsleeves and trousers, head hanging limply, eyes closed, wrists shackled together in front of him. He looked dead.

He’s tied-up, a little voice reassured her, you don’t need to restrain a dead man.

Rachel flipped over the photograph again, the words now making sense. “Madhouse… get on the blower. Tell Bodie and Doyle. Tell them that Mr Gently’s the next target.”

Taylor ran off, leaving Rachel alone. She put the photograph back on the table with shaking hands. “Jesus Christ, John,” she murmured, “What the hell have you done?”

***

Bacchus pulled over to the side of the road and rested his forehead on the wheel. The leather was warm against his skin and slightly damp – he was sweating like a pig. He turned his head towards the passenger seat, gaze falling reluctantly on the battered envelope. His hands moved of their own accord, reaching down and gingerly picking up the envelope, opening the flap and removing the two Polaroid photographs inside.

Both of them were of Gently; tied-up, gagged and unconscious. Every time Bacchus looked at them he hoped that he wouldn’t see anything; he prayed (why pray? He didn’t believe in a God) that they’d be blank, normal photographs.

Not these.

Bacchus forced himself to take a breath. He slowly turned the photographs over. Each photograph formed part of a message. Bacchus read it slowly, chewing his lip.

‘Want to be a hero?’ the first one taunted while the second proclaimed, in capital letters, thickly penned, ‘BRING KENNY.’

Bacchus swallowed and slid his hand into his coat. The cold metal shocked him even though he knew the gun was there. Taking it out, he stared at his warped reflection in the barrel. The lads down in the armoury kept it well-oiled and ready – he’d have to congratulate them when he got back.

If, his mind supplied cautiously.

They’d notice he was gone, wouldn’t they? Rachel was smart – smarter than him, actually – and she’d know that something was wrong, that something had happened. With any luck, those CI5 blokes would work it out too. Dropping the photographs on the driver’s seat, he climbed out of the car and slipped the gun into the holster. It was an uncomfortable weight against his side. The fact that the weapon hadn’t been formally checked out should be making some waves, he thought as he shut the car door. Please God let it be noticed. He’d done everything to be obvious: taken his own car, stolen a gun (ha, major offence there), kidnapped a criminal (even worse) blocked the road with his parking and left the third picture in Gently’s house.

Kenny Drover was watching him with a strangely calm expression on his face. It was a look that Bacchus associated with Jerome, not his younger brother. It was disturbing.

Fury and fear almost choked him. Drawing his gun, Bacchus opened the car door. “Get out,” he snarled. Kenny grinned at him, showing shark-like teeth.

“This is sweet,” he rumbled.

“Get. Out.”

Kenny obeyed, awkwardly unfolding himself, his hands trapped behind his back. He was still smiling.

“Walk,” Bacchus ordered. He kept himself a fair distance from the hulking man, not wanting to have his life ended, here, on the road with a snapped neck. “Let’s go.”

Through the trees, Bacchus could see the forbidding Victorian architecture of the old Durham Mental Asylum. Squaring his shoulders, he followed Kenny towards it.

***

Durham Mental Asylum was damp, run-down and overrun with rats. Bacchus walked Kenny inside, trying to remain calm.

If he was an insane serial killer, where would he take his prisoners? The room in the photograph had been tiled with black and white, he remembered bleakly, but everything was that colour – or had been in the past, at least. The place smelled rotten; mouldy and neglected. “Stop,” he ordered Kenny. Kenny did; almost truculently obedient. Bacchus looked around, trying to think of what he knew about places like this. They had cells, right? Where they kept unruly patients? Is that where Jerome would be keeping Gently? His friend may not be as fit as he had been when they’d first met thirteen years ago (for a moment, Bacchus’ jaw ached in remembrance), but he was still able to throw a punch or two. Therefore, Gently would have to be restrained somewhere, if only for convenience. That meant that it was unlikely that Gently would be able to help Bacchus or even manage to escape on his own.

If he was drugged then it’d be even harder. Bacchus swallowed nervously. If Gently was still semi-conscious when the hostage exchanged happened, then they were both dead.

He was walking into a death trap and he knew it.

An idea sparked: make Jerome come to him. Find somewhere easily defensible and conduct the swap from there. Bacchus poked Kenny in the back. “Alright,” he said, “Get moving.”

Kenny eyed him, one eyebrow raised. “Do you know where you’re going?” he asked mockingly.

“Do you?”

“Of course,” Kenny smiled. “Jerome is expecting you, copper. And if you don’t go where he wants you to, you will regret it.”

His mouth dried, but he managed, “And how will he know, Kenny?”

Kenny’s gaze flicked up. So did Bacchus’. In the crumbling roof, barely visible, was the distinctive red light of a security camera. Bacchus looked back at the man, trying not to let his fear show on his face.

“Smile,” Kenny laughed.

Bacchus cocked his gun and pointed it at Kenny. “Tell me where guv is,” he spat, “Or I’ll shoot you dead here and now.”

“On camera?” Kenny tutted, “Two dead with one bullet. Not very smart, copper.”

Rage was boiling up inside him, frothing like smashing waves. Bacchus tried to get a grip on himself, make himself think clearly. But it was getting more and more difficult to bury that fear and burst of instincts. Kenny was a threat. A threat to him and Gently. He should just… no! John, get a hold of yourself!

The voice in his head came from a long way away. Bacchus saw his finger begin to tighten on the trigger.

Then there was a crackle of static from above him. Bacchus, jolted back to reality, stepped back, staring around. “A tannoy…?” he began.

He was abruptly cut off when the tannoy hissed again, the interference morphing into a cry of pain. Bacchus nearly dropped his gun. “Guv!” The shout was reflexive, shock rewiring his brain. Another agonised yell filtered through.

They tortured their victims. They were torturing his friend.

Bacchus looked back to see Kenny looking at him. “You want to make it stop?” Kenny asked quietly. Bacchus could only nod. He kept the gun pointed at the man.

“Take me to him.”

Kenny gave him a mocking bow and tilted his head towards a set of peeling stairs. Heart in his mouth, Bacchus followed him.

Every step he took seemed to echo in his head: it’s a trap. It’s a trap. It’s a trap.

***

Bacchus’ nerves were almost entirely shot by the time Kenny stopped in front of a sturdy, well-cared-for door. Each new yell transmitted over the tannoy made him want to vomit, or scream, or shoot Kenny because he couldn’t imagine, didn’t want to imagine, exactly how Jerome was coaxing those sounds out of Gently.

Kenny turned around to look at him. 

“Open it,” Bacchus ordered. Sweat was sliding down his back, his hand shaking ever so slightly as he jabbed the gun at Kenny.

Kenny smiled at him, his teeth jutting over his lip. “Are you sure?” he asked. There was a savage gleam in his eyes. “Do you really want to see?”

Another cry – but this time Bacchus could hear the origin as well as what was being broadcast over the tannoy. He took a breath and tried to mentally tune it out. Rational. Logical. He needed to keep a hold of himself.

“Open it,” he said firmly. “Open the fucking door.”

Kenny shrugged and then placed his hand on the handle. “It’s not gonna be pretty,” he warned. Then he flung the door open.

Bacchus moved with Kenny as he tried to make a break for it, grabbing his collar and pressing the gun against his neck. He shoved Kenny forwards, using the bigger man as a shield. He peered over Kenny’s shoulder and, without meaning to, gave a gasp of horror.

Time slowed and all sound stopped.

Gently was strapped to what looked like an operating table in the centre of the room. There was a microphone sitting beside him on the table, wires trailing across the floor. He was so pale that for a brief second Bacchus was breathless, wondering if he was too late and he’d taken Kenny here for nothing. Then Gently moved, his head lolling to the side, chest rapidly rising and falling as he struggled for sufficient air. Jerome was standing behind the table holding something in his hands: what, Bacchus wasn’t sure.

He couldn’t see any blood, couldn’t see any reason for Gently to be screaming in agony.

What the fuck had Jerome done to him?

Bacchus blinked and the world came roaring back. “Alright, Jerome. I’m here. Now let him go.”

Jerome stared at him. “Let my brother go first.”

“Hah. No.” Bacchus pressed the barrel of his gun against Kenny’s skin, feeling the shift as he did so. “Get Guv out of that – that thing!” Gently shifted again and quickly Bacchus called, “Sir? Can you hear me?”

The only answer he got was a small, clumsily suppressed moan.

Bacchus swallowed, plans exploding in his mind like fireflies. “Alright,” he said, “Alright. On my count, start untying him.”

Jerome laid a hand on one of Gently’s restraints. He stopped.

“What the hell are you waiting for?” Bacchus snarled.

Something cold pressed against his jaw. Bacchus’ gaze swivelled, feeling like a hand had just twisted his gut. He could just make out a figure standing on the edge of his peripheral vision.

“He’s waiting for me,” Stoker said.

***

Bacchus had a moment of silver terror. His heart jumped in his chest. His mind emptied of all thoughts except: ‘Gun.’

“Put your weapon down, Inspector, there’s a good boy.” Stoker almost sounded bored. 

“No,” Bacchus croaked. “No. I’ll still shoot. Let him go.”

“We’ve turned the tables on you, copper,” Jerome spat. “You’ve got a gun pointed at your head and I’ve still got the old man.”

A flash of fire shot through Bacchus’ body, but he forced himself to remain still. The heat leaked through his clamped teeth, materialising in, “Bastard.”

Stoker stepped around, the gun still pressed to Bacchus’ head, until he was behind him. The barrel never left Bacchus’ skin, not for a moment, and he found himself hating how professional the bastard was. “I think you’ll drop it now.” Stoker’s voice was silky-smooth and sweet.

Bacchus didn’t have time to respond as Jerome pressed the device – devices – to Gently’s temples.

Gently screamed. There was no other word for it, no other word for the raw expression of pain. He was shaking; shuddering as Jerome shot God knew how many volts through his body.

“No!” Bacchus threw away his gun, barely realising that he’d done it. “Stop it! Stop it! You’re hurting him!”

Leaning in, Stoker whispered, “That’s rather the point.”

Bacchus couldn’t tear his eyes away from the horror film scene unfolding in front of him. “Stop it,” he begged, “Stop it. He’s just an old, sick man. Please. Stop it.”

It felt like an eternity, but Jerome stepped back and placed the device down on another table. Gently fell silent. He didn’t move.

 Ignoring Bacchus, Jerome ran over to his brother and unlocked his restraints. Kenneth gave him a hug before turning back to Bacchus, giving him a leering grin. Bacchus shrank back.

“Alright, Inspector,” Stoker said, “Let’s get you to your accommodations, shall we? It wouldn’t do to have you running around causing trouble.”

He grabbed Bacchus’ arm and began to pull him towards the door. Bacchus dug in his heels. “No! I want to see him, I want to see he’s still alive!”

Sounding genuinely confused, Stoker answered, “Why? You’ll be seeing him in Hell soon enough.”

***

Bodie wrinkled his nose as Doyle helped him through the broken window. “Smells like something died in here.”

Doyle brushed a stray shard of glass off of Bodie’s jacket and glared at him. “That’s sick, even for you, Bodie.”

Holding up his hands, Bodie answered, “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know. C’mon, we’ve got to find Bacchus and Gently before these sick fucks do away with them as well.” Doyle slid his gun from its holster and checked the chamber for the seventh time. Not that Bodie had been counting or anything.

He certainly wasn’t judging. He drew his own weapon and stepped around his partner, taking care where he placed his feet.

Doyle noticed. “You reckon the floor is…” he waved his hand.

Bodie shrugged, “If it’s not, then you’re likely to just fall through. Look at the decay.” He managed to dredge up a weak grin, “Besides, they’re serial killers. I don’t think they’d be squeamish about blowing up any intruders.”

The look Doyle gave him could’ve been gold-plated, it was so typical. “Thanks for that, Bodie,” he muttered as he followed his partner. They crept along the walls, avoiding the centre of the corridors. The smell got worse as they made their way deeper into the grey-white maze of poky rooms and tight passageways. Bodie didn’t want to think about it. Probably only dead rats. Probably.

Bodie peered around a doorway, seeing only the asylum entrance.  The big empty space looked clear. He made to step out.

“Wait!” Doyle grabbed his arm and dragged him back into the shadows. As Bodie opened his mouth to protest, Doyle pointed up to one of the room’s corners. “Look, there, a security camera.”

Bodie nodded, “Thanks. Is it on?”

“There’s a red light…” Doyle rubbed his lip thoughtfully. “Those ones don’t have a very wide beam,” he said slowly, “If we sneak ‘round the edge going left, it probably won’t see us… I think.”

“You think?” Bodie echoed.

“You got a better idea?”

Shrugging, Bodie conceded the point. Beckoning to his partner, he led the way with his back to the wall and tried not to think of the damage the paint flecks and rust were doing to his coat.

They climbed the stairs gingerly – “Reckon that bannister’s on its last legs,” Doyle offered – and then quickly made their way along another labyrinth towards a crossroads. Two chipped metal signs were screwed into the wall. The sign to the left read: ‘isolation ward’ and the right: ‘theatres’. The two agents looked at each other and, without a word being exchanged, immediately turned left.

Neither felt much like splitting up.

The isolation ward turned out to be a long line of police-like cells, each door as secure as the entrance to the Bastille. Bodie lowered his weapon and pulled on the first door. It opened with a squeak. So did the next one, and the next three. “We went the wrong way,” he said.

“No, we didn’t,” Doyle called back. He was heaving on the sixth door, face going red. “This one’s locked,” he said in answer to Bodie’s unvoiced question, “Help me.” As Bodie approached, Doyle swiftly frowned and pressed his ear to the metal. “Someone’s in here!”

“You’re not going to strongman that, sunshine,” Bodie said, brandishing his lockpicks. “Care to do the honours?”

It didn’t take Doyle long to jimmy the lock. Like everything in this building it was old and had seen better days. Bodie pulled open the door, aiming his weapon inside.

Bacchus was lying on the floor, hands and ankles tied and mouth taped shut. He saw them and banged his heels furiously on the wall. Flicking open their knives, Bodie and Doyle went to work on the ropes. Bodie ripped the tape off Bacchus’ mouth.

“What are you doing here?” Bacchus snarled weakly.

“Followed your trail of breadcrumbs, didn’t we?” Doyle said as he sliced the bindings trapping the man’s wrists.

“C’mon, Gretel, we came into the gingerbread house to rescue you,” Bodie said, warming to Doyle’s theme, “Where’s Hansel?”

Bacchus scrambled to his feet and choked out, “He – they’ve – got guv in one of the operating theatres.” He swallowed, closing his eyes like the memory pained him, “They were torturing him, the fucking bastards… he’s already sick…” he seemed to mentally shake himself. “It was Stoker. He’s the bastard in charge of this. They took my gun…”

Doyle patted his shoulder. “Stay behind us,” he ordered, “We’ll find Gently.”

“And we’re going to find him alive,” Bodie finished, a storm lurking under the statement.

***

The door leaked an air of menace, Doyle thought as they stealthily approached it. Whether it was his own imagination fuelled by what Bacchus had told them, or there really was some sound or image that was causing the hairs to stand up on the back of his neck, he wasn’t sure.

Checking his gun again, Doyle crept to the door and pressed his ear against it. Bacchus opened his mouth to speak, but Doyle silenced him with a military flick of his hand. Listening intently for any noise, Doyle caught his partner’s eye and waved his hand back and forth across his neck, shaking his head as he did so. 

Bodie understood. He took up position on the other side of the door. Bacchus stared at them, obviously bewildered by the almost telepathic nature of their communication. Too late, Doyle realised that his signal for nothing could easily be construed for a slit throat. Ah well. He nodded at Bodie, who reached out and turned the doorknob.

The door swung open with barely a whisper to reveal a white room. Immediately, Doyle’s eye was caught by the electrical machines and the table. There was a supine form on the table, the green shirt the only colour in the room. Instinctively, he caught Bacchus as he stepped forwards, holding him back. “Could be a trap,” he hissed.

Bacchus turned a ferocious gaze on him, but Doyle held him tightly. Bodie was scanning the room. It wasn’t very big so there weren’t many places for the killers to hide and there was a door on the other side of the room which presumably led to the small window higher up the wall.

Finally, he murmured, “Looks clear.”

“Then let’s go,” Bacchus growled. He didn’t wait, sprinting towards the table. Bodie and Doyle jogged after him, each covering one end of the room. No bullets flew at them from the window, no one shouted out an alarm.

When they reached Bacchus, he was leaning over Gently, long fingers feeling for a pulse. Gently’s eyes were closed. “He’s alive,” he whispered, “Thank God. Sir, can you hear me?” He tapped Gently’s cheek, “Sir?”

The straps were stiff, Doyle struggled with the buckle binding Gently’s right wrist. The man’s skin was clammy, and when he looked back at Gently’s face, he could see a savage red-black bruise forming on his cheek and dried blood caked across his neck. “I have… nothing to… say to you,” Gently muttered.

“What?”

Bacchus shushed him. “Sir. Sir, it’s me, John.”

“John?” Gently’s eyelids flickered open, gaze focusing with apparent difficulty. “John…!”

“It’s OK, sir, we’re gonna get you out of here,” Bacchus said. He jerked his chin towards Bodie and Doyle, “Get his legs free.”

Bodie and Doyle did so, throwing the straps away. Bacchus helped Gently sit up, supporting him with his shoulder.

“Where… John, why do I hurt so much?” Gently squinted in the light, glancing around him in confusion as he rubbed his wrists. The skin was raw. “What the hell…?”

“We need to go now,” Bodie’s words echoed with military training. “Can you walk, sir?”

“’Course I can,” Gently shot back. He made to slide off the table, but as soon as his feet hit the ground, his knees buckled. Bacchus caught him. “Or… or not. That’s strange.” He sounded confused and a little scared.

“Jesus Christ, guv. We need to get you to a hospital,” Bacchus said as he ducked under Gently’s arm. “Your memory’s all fucked up.”

“My memory…? John, what…?” Gently’s expression abruptly closed over like a shutter had been drawn. “They didn’t even ask me any questions,” he whispered. He raised a hand to his temple and they saw the small patch of burned skin. Gently shuddered and leant more on Bacchus, “Get me out of here, John. Please.”

A clatter drew their attention to the other side of the room. Someone was shouting and banging down the stairs.

“Time to go!” Bodie shouted, levelling his gun towards the huge swing doors. “Go!”

Practically dragging his former mentor, Bacchus made for the door the corridor they’d come from. Doyle covered his escape. Bullets sparked near Doyle’s head, forcing him to do a combat roll out of the door. Adrenaline shot through his bones in a burst of gold and red. Bodie followed more elegantly, barely avoiding another line of bullets that ate up the floor behind him.

Gunfire followed them down the corridor, chips of plaster and plastic cutting across their paths. They ducked around the corner back towards the stairs; Doyle leading the way, Bodie covering the rear, and staggered onto a neglected ward.

“Where are we going?” Bodie called, catching up to his partner.

“I’m trying to lose them,” Doyle growled as he pointed towards another exit. “There’s got to be another way out of here!”

“Wait…!” Bodie and Doyle glanced back. Bacchus was having difficulty, stumbling under the weight of Gently. Gently was trying to keep moving, but the pair could hear his panting from where they were. The old man was struggling, one hand pressed to his ribs.

“John, just go without me,” Gently grunted, “I can find somewhere to hide –“

“Not bloody likely!”

Doyle saw Bodie’s shoulders heave in a massive sigh. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped. The sounds of voices were drawing closer. He tossed his gun to Doyle who caught it neatly and ran back to Bacchus and Gently. “This isn’t going to be dignified,” he warned the old man. Gently had just enough time to look puzzled before Bodie picked him up and slung him over his shoulder, ignoring the weak protests. “Doyle!”

“On it.” Doyle aimed his gun at the door, finger tight on the trigger. Jerome poked his head around the corner. Doyle’s bullet sent him reeling back. “Go!”

***

“Do you think we lost them?” Bacchus panted, digging a hand into his side. Bodie lowered Gently down to the ground, his face red with effort.

“No,” he started, “But we might.” He looked over at Doyle who tilted his head to the side. There was another flash of telepathic communication. Taking a deep breath, Bodie continued, “We’re the ones with weapons. We’ve got guns. We’ll draw them away. You two stay here. Stay hidden.”

Without another word, Bodie and Doyle left the room. Bacchus opened his mouth to shout after them, thought better of it, and instead turned back to Gently. “C’mon,” he whispered, draping Gently’s arm around his neck and helping him struggle to his feet.

The room they were in was a large storeroom of some kind; there were two doors, one leading back into the labyrinth and the other leading out towards the stairwell. Bacchus examined the area visible through the doorframe. “I think we’ll be too exposed there, guv… here we go…” He indicated a large storage space. “You should fit right in there, sir,” he managed cheerfully.

“What about you, John?” Gently demanded. His hand dug into Bacchus’ shoulder. “I’m not letting you –“

Bacchus all but shoved Gently into the space. He crouched down and caught Gently’s gaze. “For once will you listen to me? Stay there. Keep quiet. Don’t pass out on me, OK?” He attempted a wink and squeezed his mentor’s hand. “Don’t worry, I can take care of myself.”

Footsteps rang out. Bacchus’s heart froze. The tread was heavy – too heavy to be Doyle or Bodie. Bacchus put a shaky finger to his lips, tried to look confident, pulled across one of the crates to hide Gently, and then slunk away across the room. Sliding down behind a wooden crate, Bacchus craned his head to check out at the newcomer in the room.

The frozen fear in his heart dropped into his stomach. Kenny Drover stopped in the centre of the room, a shining gun clenched in his hand and a watchful expression on his face. Bacchus pulled his head back in like a tortoise and shut his eyes. Pass by, he begged. Keep walking. He felt horribly exposed and helpless.

Kenny began to walk again, his tread heavy but measured. He was looking for them. Bacchus clapped a hand over his own mouth, attempting not to breathe, or move, or make a noise –

The footsteps stopped. Needles stabbed Bacchus’ gut. Why had he stopped? Why? Slowly, Bacchus moved so he could see the man. Kenny was staring, a faint smile on his face. Bacchus followed his gaze and silently swore. The crate wasn’t how he’d left it. Gently must have nudged it accidentally. Kenny cocked his gun. He moved forwards, like a tiger, his gaze gleaming.

Bacchus exploded out from behind the crate and slammed his body into Kenny’s arm. The shot went wide. Grabbing the gun, Bacchus smashed Kenny’s wrist into the sharp edge of the crawlspace. Kenny dropped the gun. Kenny yelled and swung his fist. He caught Bacchus on the temple. Bacchus hit the ground, hard. The gun flew away into the mess of boxes and objects. As Bacchus tried to get up, Kenny landed on him, knocking all the air out of his lungs. Before he could take a breath, Kenny’s hands fastened around his throat.

Almost immediately, his vision blurred and his lungs screamed. Bacchus grabbed at Kenny’s wrists, scratching deep claw marks into the other man’s skin. Blood thundered in his brain.

There was a yell that seemed to echo from a long distance away. Almost like I’m underwater, Bacchus thought fuzzily. The hands suddenly released their death grip. Bacchus shot upright and gulped air like it was going out of fashion. Reaching out a hand, Bacchus hauled himself to his knees. Blurs were dancing in his vision, gradually separating into two distinct shapes. He shook his head.

Kenny had Gently pinned against the wall and was delivering heavy blows into the man’s stomach. All Bacchus’ rage, all his fury at the cop-killers ignited. With an inhuman roar, he rushed Kenny for a second time, ripping the much bigger man away from Gently. Kenny stumbled, briefly disorientated by the ferocity of the attack. Bacchus punched him in the face. Kenny spat blood. Bacchus hit him again, feeling teeth tear into his knuckles. Kenny caught his third punch, grinning with crimson lips, when Gently barrelled into him, knocking him sideways. As Kenny hit the wall, Bacchus lashed out with his foot, striking as hard as he could.

The snapping of Kenny’s neck as he collided with the sharp angle of the old wall was the loudest thing Bacchus had ever heard. The corpse slipped down, flopped a moment, and lay still. Panting, he placed his hands on his knees and stared at the man he’d killed.

He thought he was going to vomit. Bloody foam bubbled from the dead man’s lips and his eyes were already sheened.

Gently slid down to his knees, similarly drained. He looked up at Bacchus; pale, sweating, and wide-eyed. He opened his mouth a few times, but nothing came out.

Finally, he actually managed to form words. “Find the gun.”

***

“Fuck!” Fire blazed through Bodie’s arm. His gun fell from slack fingers. Another bullet hit the wall next to him. Bodie scrambled back into cover, cursing like a sailor, and snuck a glance at the injury. Blood was dribbling down his arm – not too much, but enough to make him woozy in a few minutes – and as much as he struggled, his fingers barely moved. “Shit!”

Where was Doyle?

Not here. He was dealing with Stoker. Bodie saw his gun lying on the ground and moved towards it. Bullets blocked his path, the smell of cordite rising up to envelop him. Bodie scrambled backwards towards down the corridor. His fear was starting to mount: he was weapon-less and bleeding.

“Not so cocky now, are you, copper?” Jerome yelled.

Bodie didn’t respond. He was too busy looking for a new weapon, for an escape. But there was little cover and nowhere to run.

Jerome stepped out in front of Bodie. Bodie froze. The gun was barely a few inches from his nose. “Not so suave now, are you, copper?”

Bodie met him stare for stare. He began to back away.

“No. You stay where you are, copper.” Jerome’s half-smile was mocking. “I think you’ll come in very handy, won’t you? Now… turn around.”

“No.”

Jerome raised an eyebrow and said, “Oh, be smart. Get moving.”

Bodie didn’t have much choice. Holding his arm with his other hand, he walked past Jerome and then down the corridor, Jerome’s footsteps echoing heavily behind him. They walked back out into the open space of the asylum’s entrance. Jerome made Bodie stand in the centre of the room. Bodie looked up the stairway, his brain sparking with half-finished ideas and plans.

“Hey, copper!” Jerome screamed out. “Come out! Or I shoot your partner!”

Dust drifted down from the stairway. Jerome stepped out and shoved his gun against Bodie’s head.

“Did you hear me?” Jerome shouted. Bodie half-turned, hoping that he could get the drop on the man. “I’ll kill him!”

Blood spurted. Jerome fell, the thud of his body hitting the tiles lost in the echoes of the gunshot.

“Yeah, I heard you,” Doyle said, ambling out from behind the stairs. He scooped up Bodie’s gun and ran over. “You OK?”

“I think me arm’s broken.” Bodie couldn’t help grinning despite the pain. Trust Doyle to have perfect timing. Doyle gave him a look. Grabbing Bodie’s shoulders, he manoeuvred his partner back into cover. Movement from the other side of the room made Doyle spin around. Instinct stopped him from pulling the trigger as his brain screamed a warning.

“Don’t shoot!” Bacchus was helping Gently limp down the stairs towards them.

“What happened to you?” Bodie asked.

“Kenny Drover’s dead,” Bacchus said simply. He saw the blood on Bodie’s sleeve, “Jesus, you’re hurt!”

Bodie shrugged and immediately regretted it. It felt like someone was smashing a hammer into his arm. He was also getting dizzy. “Only one left,” he said, “We need to find Stoker.”

“No,” Doyle snapped, “I’m going to find Stoker. You can’t hold a gun, Bodie.” Inspiration seemed to strike him. “You stay here. Look after Mr Gently. Mr Gently, make sure this idiot doesn’t do something stupid.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, just turned around and strode off towards the exit. Bacchus ran after him. “I’m coming with you,” he said. Holding up Kenny’s gun, he fixed Doyle with a hard stare. “I’m getting this bastard.”

Doyle didn’t have anything to say to that.

 

Stoker hadn’t gotten far. He was trying to lever open one of the broken windows when Doyle and Bacchus stepped into the room, guns drawn. “Freeze!”

Stoker spun around, gun raised, but Doyle was expecting it. His bullet crushed Stoker’s fingers, sending the gun spinning across the room. Stoker dropped to his knees, blood pouring onto the floor. Doyle walked towards him. “Do you surrender?”

Stoker ignored him, instead fixing his gaze on Bacchus. “Did you like my work?” he asked slyly. Bacchus frowned, momentarily confused. “Art is important to me. I was so surprised at Mr Gently, you know…” Stoker paused. A small smile crept into his expression. “I wasn’t expecting it to be so easy to make him break. Amazing –“

“Shut up.” Bacchus leapt forwards, the gun trembling in his hand. Pushing past Doyle, he jabbed the weapon at Stoker. “Don’t say another word, Stoker, or I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”

Stoker tutted. “And what would Mr Gently say about that, hmm? Oh, why don’t you? I know you want to. Go on.” Stoker screamed, “Go on! Prove me right!”

“No!” Doyle snapped. “Bacchus. Listen to me –“

Bacchus’ finger tightened on the trigger, seemingly deaf to Doyle’s words. “You have no right,” he said.

“Of course I have a right!” Stoker shrieked. “You’ve killed people too – both of you! Sent them to their deaths! My father died because of you lot!”

 Speaking calmly, slowly, Doyle said, “I don’t know what happened with your father, Stoker, but listen to me. You’ve killed five people –“

“Four. Harriet wasn’t my handiwork.” He sounded disappointed.

Doyle automatically flung out an arm to stop Bacchus from getting closer. This nutter could have a knife.  Bacchus shook him off. The gun was still pointed at Stoker’s head. “Shut up or I’ll kill you.”

“Do it.”

“Mr Bacchus…” Doyle’s tone was warning.

“Do it!” Stoker reared forwards, teeth bared like an animal. Automatically, Bacchus’ finger pumped the trigger.

The bullet grazed Stoker’s cheek. He howled in pain and slumped down, half-conscious, hands clutching the torn flap of skin. Bacchus stepped back, his gun hand twitched sideways, echoing his previous movement. “I missed,” he whispered.

 Doyle nodded at him and patted the man’s shoulder, moving him away. He stepped forwards, dug out his handcuffs and bound the final serial killer’s wrist. “See you at the trial,” he said.

And so it ended.

***

The antiseptic smell of the hospital irritated Doyle’s nose, but he managed to keep his expression neutral as he listened to Rachel’s explanation. Bodie nudged his shoulder and gestured with his uninjured hand. Doyle slid his focus back to Rachel.

“Stoker’s father was Andrew Richardson,” she was saying, “And Stoker was born Neil Richardson. Pretty average childhood by all accounts, until his mother, Alicia, was accidentally killed by an officer during a high-speed chase. Andrew Richardson was pretty devoted to his wife and so he attacked the police officer and killed him. It wasn’t clear whether he intended to kill the officer or not, but the jury voted guilty and Andrew was hanged. Eleven-year-old Stoker was adopted by his aunt and took her name.”

Gently nodded and inched his way further up in the bed. He looked around at the gathered circle of people around his hospital bed. The gauze holding the bloodied pad on his neck squeaked a little as he moved his head. “Stoker decided that his father didn’t deserve to be hanged, then?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Rachel said, “But according to Stoker’s own testimony, he only decided to start killing after he was helping look for Harriet and discovered her body. He was already friends with the Drover brothers so he promised them his protection if they helped him murder his victims. The Drover brothers were sadistic and readily agreed.”

Bacchus stood up and ran a hand through his hair. Doyle thought that the roots looked greyer now than when he and Bodie had first walked through the front doors of the Durham police station. “But they’ve been stopped,” he said. “And we better leave you alone now, sir.” He glanced at Bodie and Doyle and continued, “You’ve got a long journey ahead of you back to London.”

Taking their cue, Bodie and Doyle rose. Gently held out his hand. “Thank you,” he said, “Will you be down for the trial?”

“Dunno,” Bodie answered with an easy smile as he clasped the other man’s hand, “Might be.”

“Hope to see you two again – but not for official reasons. Be careful, keep yourselves well,” Gently said, smiling back.

“You too,” Doyle patted Gently’s shoulder, “Keep out of trouble, eh?”

Gently chuckled, “Alright. I’ll try. Can’t promise anything, though.”

“Safe journey home,” Rachel called as they left.

***

Bacchus stopped them at the entrance to the hospital. Pulling a battered pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, he said, “Thank you.”

Doyle tilted his head. “You’re welcome,” he replied, “We’re just doing our job.”

“No…” Bacchus sighed and lit the cigarette. Speaking through around the cigarette in his mouth, he said, “No. Thank you. You saved Guv’s life – and mine. I… I owe you one.”

“If we’re ever in town again,” Bodie said, affecting a Western drawl, “We might come collecting.”

To his surprise, Bacchus laughed. “You know… you two are more… uh… tolerable than I first thought.” He held out his hand. Bodie and Doyle shook it in turn. “Thank you. I do mean it.” He exhaled a plume of smoke and glanced worriedly back to the hospital.

“You said Mr Gently was sick,” Doyle ventured.

Smiling wanly, Bacchus said, “Yeh. MS. He’s been sick for years now.”

“Nasty… I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. He’s been OK for a bit now. Nothing too serious but…” Bacchus shrugged. His eyes were damp. “He could go blind tomorrow or he could live quite happily for another seven years. I don’t know. But that’s seven years that he wouldn’t have had without you two, so thank you. I do owe you.”

Doyle shrugged, not sure what to say. Bacchus gestured with his cigarette. “Safe journey,” he said, “I’ll finish this and then go inside.”

 

Doyle looked over at his partner as he settled in the passenger seat. “No objections to me driving then, sunshine?” he teased.

Bodie rolled his eyes and lifted his sling. “Don’t really have a choice, do I?”

Doyle laughed as he started the engine. “You love me really.”

Uncaring if anyone saw them, Bodie leant over and kissed him on the cheek quickly. “Yeh. Haven’t got anyone as well trained as you.”

A huge grin spread across Doyle’s face. He released the handbrake. “Home, James. –“

“And don’t spare the horses!”

 

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Chloroform doesn't work exactly how I described, but a cloth is just more cinematic than someone sticking a needle full of ketamine into someone's thigh.   
> 2\. As far as I am aware, there are no abandoned asylums near Durham.   
> 3\. Obviously, the Gently aspect of the story is AU because I don't know how the series will end as Gently and the New Age hasn't been released yet. (Get on it BBC!)  
> 4\. Many, many, many thanks to the Mods (you've been awesome, thank you!) and also to my artist for their work. Hope you enjoyed the story. :-)


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